


I'm Burning For You

by fictionallemons



Series: Burning for You [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Alternate Universe, Attempted Sexual Assault, Baker Dean Winchester, Bisexual Sam Winchester, Bottom Dean Winchester, Bottom Sam Winchester, Break Up, Childhood Trauma, Coming Out, Cousin Incest, Drinking, Fluff, Gay Dean Winchester, Grieving Sam Winchester, Happy Ending, Kissing, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Non-Hunter Dean Winchester, Non-Hunter Sam Winchester, Non-Hunter Winchesters (Supernatural), Pie, Protective Dean Winchester, Rape, Rape Recovery, References to Depression, Sexual Assault, Sexual Coercion, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, Smut, Soulmates, Switching, Therapy, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Top Dean Winchester, Top Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:08:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 26
Words: 79,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28537113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionallemons/pseuds/fictionallemons
Summary: Dean and Sam Winchester's lives haven't been the same since their mother was murdered. John's unstable, keeps them moving around the country supposedly looking for the man who murdered Mary. Dean longs to get Sam away, to give him a chance at a more normal life. He finally breaks them free after John does something unforgivable. With Bobby's help, they start over in California, just the two of them against the world.Six years later, Sam's off to Stanford and Dean has to face his demons if he's ever going to make it without Sam by his side.Note: This is a slow burn, with a happy ending for Dean and Sam, but along the way each brother has relationships with other people.
Relationships: Aaron Bass/Dean Winchester, Castiel/Anna Milton, Dean Winchester/Original Male Character(s), Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore & Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Burning for You [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2199081
Comments: 208
Kudos: 113





	1. Anniversary

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song [ "Burnin' For You" by Blue Öyster Cult](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ipqqEFoJPL4)
> 
> This fic contains depictions of violence, sexual violence (mainly in chapter 2), and therapy. Please heed the tags. I am not a therapist and make no claims to the accuracy of the depiction of therapy in this story. I have written the therapy as a positive influence in the characters' lives, and they get what they need from it.

**1995**

November second is never a good day. Every year, John gets more and more withdrawn as the date approaches. Last year he'd skipped town altogether. Sam had a cold so Dean stayed home and watched cartoons with him all day, racking up yet another absence at yet another high school. But it had been better that John had simply been gone. 

No such luck this year.

This year, John's got them parked in an extended stay motel on the outskirts of the outskirts of Nashville. He'd been working at a truck stop since Labor Day, but coincidentally got laid off around the same time a couple of cases of bourbon had shown up in the kitchenette of the motel room. Dean knows they were lifted from some unlocked delivery truck and either his dad was found out and fired, or John figured why work for booze money when he had the booze already.

Dean's hoping he'll just drink himself to sleep the night of the first and stay asleep until the third. Better for everyone that way. But most of the things Dean hopes don't pan out, so he's not surprised when he wakes up on the anniversary of his mother's murder to find John looming over his twin bed, three days' beard on his face, a shotgun in his hand.

"Wake your brother up. We're going hunting."

Dean rubs the sleep from his eyes, glances over to where Sam's asleep in the other twin. His brother looks peaceful in the predawn light, quiet and still and so young. He's growing like a weed, but he still looks like a little kid, more like an elementary schooler than someone who'll be in high school soon.

"You hear me, boy? Get up."

"Yes, sir." The reply is automatic, like gunfire. John stomps off and Dean dresses wearily in the warmest clothes he owns. November in Tennessee could be cold, depending on where they end up and how late they stay out. He rummages around in their duffles—they've been there for three months, but neither of them bothered to unpack in any permanent way—and pulls out some warm stuff for Sammy to layer into.

"Hey, Sam." He perches on the edge of Sam's bed, his weight making it dip in the middle. He pushes Sam's thick brown hair back away from his face. Kid always needs a haircut. "Sam," he says a little louder, and this time Sam opens his eyes.

"Dean," he says sleepily. He shuts his eyes, reaches for Dean the way he used to when they were both much smaller. Dean wishes he could curl up in bed with Sam, make a pillow fort and waste the day away telling each other scary stories and imagining all the places they'll go and things they'll see when they're finally old enough to go out on their own. Dean's sixteen. He's got his license, but John rarely lets him take the Impala anywhere on his own. He'd drop out of school in a heartbeat if it meant he could get a real job, save up enough for his own wheels.

"You gotta get up. Dad's waiting on us."

Sam's eyes fly open, instantly losing their softness. "For what?" He sounds awake and alert now.

"He's taking us hunting." Dean hears the apology in his voice.

"I don't want to."

"I know. But we have to. It's—well, you know what day it is."

Sam's mouth turns down. "I know."

Dean wishes he could protect Sam from this, but when it comes to John Winchester proclamations, neither of them have any leverage. Half the time, he doesn't even act like they exist. The neglect isn't always benign—Dean remembers vividly the time Sam broke his arm jumping off a roof, trying to fly. He'd pedaled his bike as fast as he could to the hospital, Sam balanced precariously on the handlebars because John was passed out and couldn't be roused. But the absence is better than when he actually takes an interest in them. Better to be ignored than ordered around, playing pretend soldier as John relives his days in the Marines, preparing his sons for a battle that will never come.

Today is a day for pretending. John's pretending that the backwoods he takes them to is full of game, that they're actually going to hunt an animal. Sam's pretending not to hate every minute of the target practice and sparring and knife throwing they're actually doing. And Dean's pretending that he's not bone-deep angry at his father for the semi-nomadic life he's mired them in, while pretending not to be heartbroken that his mother was taken from him—from all of them—much too soon.

Mary's name never crosses John's lips in all the hours he spends sending them on pointless drills, or while he watches over them as they disassemble and reassemble the various handguns and shotguns he has secured in the trunk of the Impala at all times. But Mom isn't far from Dean's mind all day. He remembers her vaguely, a pretty, soft presence. But he remembers her last words to him vividly.

"Take Sam. Protect him."

A man had broken into the house, crept up the stairs, tried to steal Sammy. Mary had stopped him. And he'd shot her. The noise had woken Dean, and when he'd gotten to Sam's room, Mary was holding one hand to her side, holding Sam in the other. She handed Dean the bundle that consisted of his six-month-old brother. _Take Sam. Protect him._ Then she smiled.

Dean had run, clutching Sam to his chest.

The man shot Mary three more times, then set the house alight and disappeared into the night. Dean had huddled with Sam in the shadows of the neighbor's porch until he saw the familiar outline of the Impala driving up the street. John had been working the night shift, came home to police cars and fire engines, and a dead wife.

John did the best he could for a while. It wasn't until Dean was nearly seven, and Sammy was out of diapers, that they started moving around more. John couldn't seem to hold down a job, and he didn't seem to care. He'd get wild ideas about tracking down the man who killed Mary, even though the police had long since resigned themselves to it being a cold case forever. He began stockpiling guns. Ammo. He dropped them off at Bobby's, a distant cousin of Mary's, for long stretches while he chased down half-assed leads in other states. Dean learned not to miss him. It was better when he was away. At least Bobby made sure they had three squares, had plenty of books for Sam to read and plenty of cars for Dean to tinker with. But John always came back, scooped them up, dropped them in another nothing town, enrolled them at another school. Once in a while he'd appear to clean up his act, throw out the booze, stay with a job for longer than a couple of months. Sam would start to make friends and Dean would think about joining the wrestling team and then before they knew it, they were back on the road again for one reason or another.

It's been ten years of this nomadic lifestyle, and John only seems to be getting worse. In October, Dean had come home to John screaming at Sam at the top of his lungs for leaving a carton of milk out of the fridge. Sam's eyes had been wide with fear and Dean had rushed to put himself between his father and his brother. A human shield. He hadn't thought about it. He'd just done it. _Protect Sam._ His mother had given him that mission and there was no end date on it, no time when it wouldn't apply.

That day in the kitchen, John seemed to come to his senses when Dean had slid in there, suddenly up in his face. He'd slumped back, and slammed out of the motel ten minutes later. He didn't come back for two days.

Now, the light's fading in the woods. They're low on ammo, and haven't eaten since the hastily slapped together sandwiches Dean made that morning. John's been nursing a fifth since noon, and Dean hopes he'll have the good sense to let Dean drive them back. Sam's dead on his feet, and Dean feels the cold seeping through his boots. The sole's peeling away on the left one; he'll need a new pair soon, which means skipping lunch to save up enough to get the cheapest pair from the army surplus store. It's real hard to shoplift shoes; he's tried more than once. Sam's grown out of two sizes in the past year alone.

"Dad, I've got some hamburger back at the motel. What do you say we head back, fry us up some burgers?" Dean figures it can't hurt to try.

John wipes his mouth, glares. "You think we're done here?"

"Uh, no sir, just thinking—"

"Well, if you're so set on thinking, think about why we're doing this. Why you have to be perfect shots. Why you need to be prepared for anything and everything. Do you remember what day it is?"

"Yes, sir."

"The man who murdered your mother…who shot her dead…is still out there. And we're not going to stop until that man is six feet under, do you understand?"

Dean has heard this refrain his entire life. The murderer is out there, and John's going to find him. John's going to get his revenge and Dean and Sam are going to help him. Dean's heard it a million times before. He doesn't know when he stopped believing his father and started to understand that John was broken, probably beyond repair, but he knows he doesn't have it in him to stand up to his father today. Not today, when he knew how much his dad is hurting. Because if there's one thing Dean knows, it's that John loved Mary Winchester more than anything. More than life. More than his two sons, that's for goddamned sure.

"I understand."

"You what?" John spits.

"I understand, sir."

John sets back on his heels, tucks the fifth into his back pocket. "Well, then, show me."

Dean doesn't know what his dad means. He glances at Sam, who shrugs faintly.

"Sir?"

"Show me how well you understand your mission. Our mission. Show me what you'll do when you meet the man who murdered your mother."

Dean still doesn't know exactly what John wants, but he jumps out of his skin a little when John suddenly roars, "Show me!" He pulls a handgun from his waistband and points it straight at Dean. It's not the first time Dean's had a gun pointed at him, but his own gun is on a stump a few feet away, his throwing knife tucked into a sheath around his ankle. He hesitates, and John swings the gun around and points it straight at Sam. 

Every nightmare Dean's ever had coalesces into the sound of his father cocking the gun and leveling it at Sam's chest. Dean registers that Sam freezes, his palms up, as if trying to prove his harmlessness. He registers the look on his father's face—a little wild, a little calculating. He's looking more at Dean than at Sam. And it's not that Dean really thinks John wants to hurt Sam, but he's been drinking and fingers slip. Accidents happen. But he won't let them happen to Sam. 

He doesn't think, he just puts his head down, rushing at his father as fast as his feet will take him, barreling into him, yelling something, using his entire body weight to take his taller, stronger, father down and disarm him. He's panting, with his father's gun stripped, sitting on John's chest, when he realizes what he's done. John's groaning and laughing simultaneously, and Dean whips his head around. Sam's still standing, palms up, his mouth open. He's safe and whole and no one is ever going to hurt him. Not on Dean's watch.

John lets Dean drive back.


	2. Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains moderately graphic sexual violence against a sixteen year old Dean. Please heed the tags.

Other kids have teddy bears or a special blanket. Dean has Sam. He's sixteen, but there's still nothing like being able to reach out and touch his brother to calm Dean down, to let him relax enough to sleep. When they were really little, Dean couldn't sleep at all without Sam close, and vice versa. 

Maybe Dean should be grateful for the way John's forced them to live. If they had a real house, with real bedrooms, one for each of them, then he wouldn't know that Sam was safe just by opening his eyes or listening for his breath.

November second is long past and they're still in Tennessee. The bourbon's gone, though, and John's been gone more than usual lately. Dean managed to buy himself a new pair of boots, though, with money from a few odd jobs, and he's even added a little to his secret savings stash. It's not much—a hundred bucks in small bills—but it makes him feel better to know it's there, stuffed into an extra pair of socks rolled up into a ball on the bottom of his duffle. He'd like to spend it on something nice for Sam—Christmas is coming—but it's not like Sam expects much anyway.

School lets out for the break, which means long hours in the motel room, reading, watching TV, playing poker with a deck of cards worn soft with use. The last time Dean knew John had been home was three days earlier. He'd come by to change his clothes and leave them twenty dollars. The twenty was long gone, and Dean was thinking that he might go by one of the church food banks. John would be livid if he knew Dean was taking charity, but he'd done it a couple of times before. Around the holidays, those places are always giving out boxes of food. Dean isn't too proud if it means Sam can eat. Kid's too skinny as it is.

Friday night, and _Jurassic Park_ is playing on cable. Dean's seen it before in the theater, but Sam never has. They're on Sam's bed, and Dean makes fun of him when Sam hides his eyes when the hot paleontologist lady goes to turn the power back on and gets attacked by Sam Jackson's severed arm instead. Sam gasps, and Dean can't help the warmth that spreads through him when Sam turns his face into Dean's shoulder.

The movie's long over. They've brushed their teeth and lay in Sam's bed. Dean's been meaning to get over into his own twin, but he hasn't done it yet.

"Do you think Dad's coming home tonight?" Sam asks sleepily.

"Not sure," Dean answers. Sometimes he thinks it would be better if John just went away one day and never came back.

No such luck tonight. The unmistakable growl of the Impala gets closer and closer until headlights sweep along the threadbare curtains of their room. The engine cuts out, the lights cut off, and there's silence. 

"Guess he's back," Sam says softly.

"Yeah. You go to sleep," Dean says, then shifts over to his own bed. It's a minute longer before John opens the door of their room, shuffles inside. He doesn't turn on any lights, but walks right up to Dean's bed.

"Dean. You awake, boy?"

Dean can smell alcohol on his breath, but John's not slurring his words. "Yes, sir."

"Good. I want you to get up and get dressed."

The hairs on Dean's neck stand up. It's nearly midnight on a Friday a few days before Christmas. Whatever John wants him dressed for is probably nothing good. But Dean does as he's told, pulling on jeans and a long sleeved shirt over the t-shirt he'd been wearing to bed. He gets on his boots and his jacket, not really warm enough, but it's all he has.

"Let's go."

"What about Sam?" Dean asks. He's pretty sure Sam's still awake, but he hopes his brother will pretend to be asleep.

"He's fine. He can manage without you for one goddamn minute."

"Yes, sir." It takes all of Dean's considerable self control to follow his father and not dig in his heels and stay with Sam. John's not wrong. Sam's perfectly capable of being on his own for a while. It's just that it feels like leaving a good chunk of himself behind whenever Dean has to do it.

They leave in the Impala and drive east, toward the city. Dean's not sure he wants to risk John's wrath to ask where they're going, so he keeps his mouth shut.

"Now, Dean. You're old enough to start pulling your weight, helping to provide financially for the family."

Since Dean's basically taken care of Sam single handedly for a decade, he's pretty clear on the fact that he's been pulling his weight for a while. But John's never let him get a real job, so maybe that's what he's talking about? Is this some kind of job John's set him up for? Dean thinks about his stash. A hundred measly dollars. If he could grow that, if he could get enough for his own car, things might be different. John's voice breaks into his fantasy.

"Sometimes being a man means doing things you don't want to do." Dean understands the hell out of that. He's done things he's not proud of—stealing, cheating, lying, mostly to provide for Sam.

But he doesn't really understand what John means until they pull around the back of another motel, a place even seedier than the one they've been living in. John won't look Dean in the eye, but his voice is hard; he'll brook no argument. The story comes out fast and mean: John owes some unsavory people a couple of grand. He made a deal—they can have Dean for a night to clear his debts.

"I'll pick you up in the morning. Do whatever they want and it'll go easy."

Dean's stunned silent. His dad's literally selling him out? He thinks about running. He thinks about the throwing knife in the ankle holster under his jeans.

"They're not that bad. Just a little bent. But you know something about that, right? You'll maybe suck a couple cocks—won't be your first time, right, son?"

Dean feels sick. How the hell does his dad know—he's barely even acknowledged to himself that more often than not it's a guy who catches his eye than a girl. Girls are sweet and fun. They're easy. But they don't make him go hot and cold all at once. They don't make him imagine certain…scenarios…the way a tall, well-built guy can. A guy like that wrestler they've seen live a couple of times, or that one actor on that doctor show on TV. But random jerk-off fantasies aren't…this. Dean hasn't, as a matter of fact, sucked anyone's cock, and the only one who's been close to sucking off his was Mary Beth Nolan a couple towns back, and even then, Dean couldn't go through with it.

He opens his mouth to outright refuse his father for the first time in his entire life, but John beats him to the punch. "You're doing this, son. You're going in there, you're playing nice, and you're doing whatever the hell they tell you to. And in the morning, I'll pick you up and we'll pretend it never happened. But you're doing this. If you don't, I'll just drop you by the side of the road somewhere and go back for your brother. He's a little young, but something tells me these freaks aren't particular."

Dean's skin crawls and he has the strongest urge to haul back and hit his father in the face. Hit him until his face is pulpy and raw and Dean can leave him behind, haul ass to Sam and get him the fuck away from whatever perverted idea John might get into his head. It's only the knowledge that he could lose, that John might not be bluffing, that stops him. He squares his shoulders. John chuckles. "Good boy."

Decision made, it's almost easy to let himself out of the car, swagger up to the door. Dean's gotten out of plenty of sketchy situations with sheer bravado. Maybe that'll work this time, too. A guy, easily twice Dean's age, opens the door before he can knock. He looks Dean up and down, then over his shoulder, where John's idling in the Impala.

"Sure is nice of your daddy to deliver us such a pretty toy." Dean suppresses a shiver, but he doesn't look back at John. He doesn't say anything; he knows better than to project weakness. He doesn't know this guy from Adam, but he knows how to fight. He knows how to hit first, ask questions later. If he has to fight, so be it.

"What's the holdup?" A second voice, from inside the room. The first guy holds the door open for Dean, who forces himself to walk through. The door shuts and locks behind him. It's a crappy motel room like dozens Dean's been in before. Two queen beds. Two guys. The one who answered the door and another one, a little younger and twice as ugly, sitting on the only chair in the place. He's got a nine millimeter tucked into the waistband of his jeans. When Dean sees the gun, he's still not overly worried. He can handle weapons. But he doesn't know how many more they might have stashed in the place.

"I'm Derrick," the first guy says. "This is Manny. And you're an angel. You're daddy wasn't kidding. The mouth on you."

Dean represses the urge to cover his mouth with a hand. He's gotten comments about his mouth before—usually from jerkoffs at school who don't like it when the new kid gets undue attention from the popular girls.

"I like his pretty eyes," Manny drawls. "Your daddy tell you why you're here?"

Dean stays quiet. For some reason the men think that's funny. Manny starts laughing, and Derrick joins in. "Don't need to be so stuck-up, boy. We're just going to have some fun. Have a drink."

Manny takes a swig from a flask, wipes the rim and passes it to Derrick. Dean's eyes never leave the gun. Derrick shoves the flask right in his face. "Drink up."

Dean hesitates, and gets a sharp slap on the back of the head. "I said, drink."

He takes the flask and tips his head back. The rotgut liquor goes down rough and he coughs, handing the flask back to Manny, but Manny waves it away. "Oh no, you need a little more."

In the end, they're not satisfied until Dean's taken several pulls. He starts feeling it right away, kind of floating and disconnected. He tries to stay focused, he needs to keep track of the gun. He needs to be able to get to his knife. These guys might try anything and he has to have his wits about him.

But something's wrong. He's been drunk before, and this doesn't feel like drunk. He's never this uncoordinated. A wave of dizziness passes over him and he feels his knees going weak. As if from far away, he hears one of them, Manny, he thinks, say, "Just set down a spell. You don't look so good." 

Then it starts, for real. Derrick pushes him onto the other bed, starts taking off his clothes. Dean struggles to push him away, to get his knife, anything, but his arms aren't cooperating. "There now, it's okay. We aren't going to hurt you. I told you, we're just going to have some fun. And from the way your daddy tells it, you aren't going to mind a bit."

"Are you kidding," Manny says, "Those lips? That ass? We know you want it."

Things get disjointed after that. The room goes blurry. Dean closes his eyes. He doesn't want to see. But he can't avoid the sounds, zippers and belt buckles, theirs and his. He can't avoid the press of flesh into his mouth, how they laugh when he chokes. They take turns. First with his mouth, and then they turn him over. They must be using lube, or else Dean suspects he would have been in more pain, but even so, as out of it as he is, he can feel the suffocating press of their bodies on him, in him, the endless repetitive motion, the grunts and egging each other on. Dean's not sure how much of this he's going to remember, how big the dose is of whatever is they gave him. He may be weak as a kitten, but he's not comatose. He gets a mental picture of what's happening, as if he's watching it from outside his body. Two grown men sticking their dicks in an incapacitated sixteen year old spread out before them, theirs for the taking on a disgusting motel bedspread. 

The helplessness chafes the most. All his life he's been helpless to stop his father from twisting their lives and turning them to shit. But he didn't think he was helpless when it came to his own body. To his own choices. Who did it hurt if he thought he might be bi, or gay, even. But would his dad have sold him out like this if he hadn't thought Dean deserved it somehow? That maybe he'd like it? If Dean was a good son and only wanted to fuck girls, would he be here right now? Was this John punishing him?

The sick part isn't that it's men doing this to him. It's that he has no control. Has no choice. Has no say that this is the first time he's had someone's dick inside his body.

John took that away from him. And he can never get it back, not even if he wakes up tomorrow having forgotten the whole thing.

The men tire after a while. Manny falls asleep in one bed, Derrick falls asleep in the other with Dean, naked and bruised and sore, next to him. Dean tries to stay awake, he tries as hard as he possibly can. If they're both out, maybe he'll come to his senses enough to get away. The morning seems a long way off. But he's still too drugged. The next thing he knows, Derrick's on top of him again, only this time he's flat on his back, and Derrick's kneading and squeezing Dean's cock. To his humiliation, it's mostly hard in the guy's hand. The drugged feel has lessened, but when he looks around to judge his chances of throwing Derrick off and getting the hell out of there, he sees Manny watching them from the other bed. He gives Dean an evil smile, shows him the gun in one hand. He's touching himself with the other.

Dean loses it then, on the inside. On the outside, he lies passive and nonthreatening. On the inside, he's so full of rage and bile and hatred for these men—these _rapists_ —and for his father and for himself. He wants to lash out, to go ballistic on them, to tear them apart and gather whatever shreds of dignity he can and take off, screaming fuck you to the entire world.

But there's Sam. And with a gun to his head and John's threats still echoing in his head, he lies still. He has to survive, he has to get out of this godforsaken room in one piece. He has to make it back to Sam, he has to protect him from something this vile and unfair happening to his beloved little brother.

It's easier after that, in a way, with Sam to focus him, to calm him and turn his rage into a molten core of strength. He feels less drugged, more lucid, which makes him feel less crazy, but also much more aware of each and every thing that happens to him. By the time dawn breaks, he's exhausted and sore and completely sober, with a splitting headache, his lips chapped and cracked. Manny and Derrick tell him his daddy's debt's paid in full, then they wink and take off in a Ford F150 that needs a new muffler.

Dean would just about sell his soul for a shower and a cup of coffee, but he can't stay in that room for a minute longer. When John arrives, long after sunrise, Dean's huddled outside the door, shivering uncontrollably in his inadequate jacket.

John doesn't get out of the car, just holds her in idle and waits for Dean to let himself in. Dean spares his father a glance. He looks like shit. Good. He has about a million things he wants to say to his father, but he settles for spitting out with all the venom he can muster, "Don't you ever make me do anything like that again." He doesn't bothering to hide the tears that spring to his eyes involuntarily. John doesn't answer.

The tears are gone by the time they get back to Sam, who's sitting up in his bed, reading.

Dean wishes he looks less like a truck's run him over, so he barely pauses on his way into the bathroom. "Hey Sam. I'm gonna get cleaned up and then maybe we can read some comics together?" They'd gotten a few Batman comics last week and had only read through them twice so far.

"Sure, Dean," Sam says. His voice is sweet and his smile is quick for his big brother, and Dean knows without a doubt that he did the right thing. If he'd gotten himself killed, or maimed, he wouldn't be able to take care of Sam. If John, god forbid, had made good on his disgusting threat to put Sam in Dean's place…Dean can't even imagine it. But he didn't. Sam's safe. Dean's kept him safe. And Dean's going to keep on doing it as long as he draws breath.


	3. Haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean makes a decision and Bobby helps out.

**1996**

A month later, on Dean's seventeenth birthday, John gives him a fifty dollar bill and a six-pack of shitty light beer he probably bought by mistake and didn't want to drink himself. Dean would have preferred a gun. 

The money goes with what he's managed to save in the last few weeks. He trebled his hundred four times by picking up an after school job at the local general store. They needed extra hands for the holidays, and John was absent enough not to notice Dean missing dinner most nights. Sam was more annoyed about it, especially when Dean gave him strict instructions to go nowhere but the library or the motel while Dean was working. Dean hated leaving him alone for that long every day, but he had to take the risk. They have to have money to get away. He has to get Sam away from John. Get himself away from the night that killed whatever love he still had for his father. He's locked That Night up in a box and thrown away the key. He doesn't have to think about it, ever.

The day after his birthday an ice storm slicks the streets, encases everything from stop signs to power lines in a layer of ice. John leaves them to go drinking someplace warmer than the drafty motel. Dean waits until he's fairly sure John's gotten far enough away, then piles everything warm they own in their duffels. He brings the picture of Mary and four-year-old him, the precious money—part goes in his left sock, part goes in his jeans pocket, part goes in the inside zippered pocket of the duffle. 

Before they leave, Dean secures his ankle knife, grabs a butterfly knife he'd managed to slip unnoticed out of John's stash for Sam. The walk to the bus station from the motel is dark, slippery, a frozen hell, but Sam doesn't complain. He doesn't say anything, actually. He follows Dean when Dean tells him what to do. Every step they take away from John fills Dean with a mixture of hope and fear. He already looked up bus times and knows there's one that will take them in the general direction of Sioux Falls. Dean buys the tickets with carefully counted out bills.

They're at Bobby's two days later.

Dean isn't sure what he's going to have to tell Bobby to get him to help them, but in the end, it's not much. Sam falls asleep on the couch as soon as they get there and Bobby sits with Dean at the old kitchen table.

"So the first thing is, you can't tell Dad."

Bobby looks troubled, but he nods. He knows John. He knows how faithful Dean was to him once upon a time, and he knows that if Dean left, it's serious.

"We can't be with him. It's not safe. For Sam." He doesn't tell him about what John made him do, his stomach churns at even the thought of having to put That Night into words, let alone watch Bobby's face as he heard it. Even with Dean's vagueness, Bobby seems to get that he's not just being an emotional, rebellious teenager.

"Your daddy might come looking for you here. Otherwise I'd tell you you could stay as long as you like." Bobby frowns, as if weighing the options. "We need to set you up someplace safe."

"Thanks, Bobby." Dean's so relieved that he and Bobby seem to be on the same page that he dares voice the hope he's harbored since he first started seriously considering getting away from John. He scratches the back of his neck. "I was thinking California? Seems far enough away that maybe we could just disappear there. We don't have much money. A couple hundred." He clears his throat. "If you could stake us, I'd pay you back, every cent."

Bobby strokes his beard. "California. Not a bad idea. John always hated it—said it was full of hippies." He chuckles. "But it might suit the two of you just fine. I'll think on that, and on a few other things. Meantime, you and Sam can take your old room at the top of the stairs. You want to eat first or sleep first?"

Dean's been hungrier before, and with Sam sacked out, nothing sounds better than getting his head on a pillow. "Sleep."

"You go on then, Sam'll be okay on the couch for tonight."

Dean hesitates. He can't be an entire floor away from Sam. He just can't. The only thing that made the trip to Bobby's bearable was that Sam was tucked into his side the entire time.

Bobby glances between Dean and his brother, nods. "You think you can get him up the stairs?"

"Yeah, he'll sleep better in a bed," Dean says. He walks over the couch, notes the smudges under Sam's eyes, but his brother's mouth is soft and relaxed in sleep. He doesn't seem to be having any bad dreams. Dean's grateful for any moment that Sam's at peace. He considers hoisting Sam up, carrying him in his arms the entire way. Dean's strong, and Sam's still mostly arms and legs. He could do it. But he feels strangely self-conscious with Bobby watching. In the end, he whispers to Sam. "Let's get up to bed, okay, Sammy?" 

He half drags, half walks his still mostly asleep brother up to the bedroom they've stayed in every time they've passed through town, the times John's just dumped them there. Happy times, for the most part. Dean's determined that this time is going to be happy, too. Because they aren't going to have to dread John coming back for them. They're leaving here on their own terms. For the first time since they fled that Tennessee motel room, Dean believes that this is going to work.

***

Bobby gives him a birthday present—belated, of course. A '67 Mustang Fastback. Not as roomy as the Impala, but stylish as hell. Dean can't keep the grin off his face as he runs his fingers over the pock-marked faded black paint. She's the most beautiful car he's ever seen.

Bobby watches Dean fall in love with first sight, but doesn't make a big deal about it. "Needs a little bit of work. But if we get started on it, we could have it running in a few days. A week at the outside. Hopefully your daddy will stay put, thinking you'll come crawling back when you run out of money, 'afore he starts looking for you."

Dean's been wondering. He knows John still loves them, in his way. But the absences, the drinking binges, the cash flow problems had all been getting worse. Since That Night, John had been less present than ever. "Honestly, Bobby, I doubt he'll be looking. Two less people to feed. He's already got the hang of drinking alone."

"Even so, if things's bad as you say, I think it might be a good idea to get some new identification. I know a guy—let me make some calls, and we'll get that going while we work on the car."

Dean's grateful for everything, he really is. But he has to ask—"Bobby—you won't make me split up from Sam, will you?"

Bobby glances between the boy who's trying so hard to be man in front of him to the boy on the cusp of adolescence reading a book as big as his head on the flaking front steps of the house. "Something tells me I couldn't make you do that even if I wanted to."

***

Six days later Dean and Sam wave goodbye. In addition to a couple new changes of clothes in their duffles, Sam's got a birth certificate with a fake birthday and a new name: Sam Robert Wesson. Dean's got one, too, in the name of Dean Smith, and a South Dakota drivers license aging him by a year. Being 18 makes a lot of things easier. The different last names are to make it less obvious they're brothers should anyone come looking. 

The new name gives Dean a pang. He's always been proud to be a Winchester, but that, like so many things, is collateral damage in his quest to protect his brother. Bobby says he'll gin up some paperwork that gives Dean custody of Sam, so when they get where they're going, Sam can enroll in school and everything all aboveboard. Dean won't be able to finish high school, not that he cared that much about that in the first place. He'll get a job, take care of Sam properly instead of having to beg, borrow, and steal. He doesn't care how hard he has to work, he's desperate to put more miles between Sam and John Winchester, more miles between them and their shitshow of a childhood.

Bobby pretends be gruff and ornery the morning they leave, but pulls them each into a rough hug before they climb into the Mustang, all spruced up and ready to go. Sam hangs out the window, waving goodbye. Dean, keeping one eye on Sam, another on the rearview mirror, watches Bobby fade away in the distance as they head for the highway. He wonders how long it'll be before he stops looking in that mirror, before he stops worrying that John will show up in it one day.

It takes them three long days of driving to get to California. Sam is quiet most of the way, reading books Bobby lent him, none of them really age-appropriate for a twelve-year-old, but what does Dean know. When they pass the blue sign welcoming them to the Golden State, Dean's shoulders lose some of their tension. And when they roll into Petaluma a couple hours later, Dean understands how the state got its nickname. It's nearly sunset and everything, from the fields of berries on their right, to the cluster of houses in the distance, is bathed in golden, perfect light. Dean glances over at Sam, who's looking out the window instead of at his book. His face is tipped up toward the sun, and he's golden, too. Dean's face feels funny all of a sudden, and he realizes it's because he's smiling.

He did it. They did it. They got away. Sam's safe, now, and as long as Dean is still breathing. He knows the few hundred Bobby gave them to get started won't get them far, but they'll be okay. He swears on his life that Sam's going to grow up good. And if that's the only thing Dean's good for, well, then, that's enough.

"Almost home, Sammy," he murmurs. "Almost home."

Sam turns to him and grins.


	4. Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six years later. Sam and Dean make a deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The majority of this fic from this point on takes place in the Petaluma area of Northern California, but most of the locations are made up or fictionalized.

**Six years later**  
**2002**

"I'm not going."

"Yes, you fuckin' are."

They're fighting about Stanford. Again. Dean wants Sam to go. Sam says he can live at home and do community college, but Dean just knows that Sam doesn't think Dean will be able to handle him being a couple hour drive away. 

Is Dean thrilled about it? Hell, the idea of Sam being somewhere he can't get to him before something bad happens makes him want to throw up, but they're both going to have to face up to it sometime. Just because Sam has never spent even one night away from the home they've made for themselves doesn't mean that's particularly healthy. Sam needs to stretch his wings, and Dean's going to pretend that he's okay with it if it kills him.

They've come a long way since their first days in Petaluma. At first they stayed at a motel on the edge of town, but when Dean found a job bussing tables and washing dishes at a diner, they found a studio apartment close enough to the middle school that Sam could walk. Dean was silently relieved there would be no need to pretend he didn't want to sleep in the same room as his brother, even though their matching twin beds from the secondhand shop were on opposite walls. He could still hear Sam breathe as he fell asleep, exhausted from working as many hours as he could squeeze in and still be there for Sam, to make sure he ate, to make sure his clothes were clean. 

A couple years later, after a stint living in the Mustang when Dean was laid off before he lucked into better-paying work as a line cook, home became the apartment they live in now. It's the nicest place they've ever lived, on the second floor of a small apartment complex in town, but still has only one bedroom. Neither of them talk about the fact that it's objectively weird for a six-foot-two teenager and his four-year-older brother to still be sharing a room. Dean would have made himself figure something else out, but Sam never once hinted that he wanted a different arrangement, not even when he was going through the worst of adolescent moodiness and angry at Dean half the time. No matter how bad they fought, they never seemed to go to bed mad, and that was a comfort to Dean, who worried that he'd screwed his brother up for life twenty times a day for the past six years.

Sam's about to graduate high school in the top ten in his class, with soccer trophies and a list of extracurriculars a mile long. He works at the library part time, and he tutors some, too. Dean's the sous chef, now, no mere line cook, He has good benefits. They have enough. Dean couldn't be prouder of Sam if he tried. And Sam's not fucking throwing all of his hard work away on community college just because Dean can't sleep without his little brother in the same room.

"It's a full ride. Room, board, everything. You can't turn that down."

"It's too far."

"It's less than two hours even with the god-awful traffic."

"I always do everything you tell me to Dean. You told me to apply. I applied. I didn’t think I’d get in!"

"Well you did, Sammy. Congratu-fucking-lations, you and your giant brain did it."

Sam doesn’t say anything. 

“I am proud of you," Dean says a little gruffly.

“I know." Sam tugs at his too-long hair in a familiar gesture of frustration. He sighs. "And I’ll do one more thing for you. I’ll go to Stanford with my fucking full ride. And I won’t complain. But you have to do two things for me."

“We’re not negotiating here, Sammy.”

“Just shut up and listen. I’ll go to Stanford if you go to therapy. My friend's dad has a practice and I think you'd like him. I just want you to go for a few months. Just try it. For me. I know your insurance covers like twenty visits a year. And I’ll suck it up and go to my dream school on a full ride.” Sam can make anything sound bitchy if he tries hard enough.

“Therapy? Really Sam?" Dean hopes Sam can't hear the way his heart's suddenly clamoring in his chest.

“Just—for me? I won’t be around. We don’t have to talk about it. But I need you to promise me you’ll actually go. And if it sucks and you hate it you can stop. Just give it a chance."

Going to therapy is probably right up there with growing a mullet on the list of things he doesn’t want to do. But when has he ever been able to deny Sam anything important? “OK, Sam. You’ve got a deal."

August comes faster than Dean expects and suddenly it's time to pack up the Mustang and take Sam to school. Dean drives him, of course, helps him move in. He doesn't seem to have much stuff compared to the other kids, just some clothes and books and a bed-in-a-bag from Target. They say their goodbyes outside with the brochure-perfect nuclear families buzzing around them like greedy beach wasps.

Dean can do this. He can say goodbye. Only saying goodbye to Sam feels like he's drowning. He can't breathe. Why can't he breathe?

Sam seems to recognize the signs of a panic attack, because he's got Dean on the ground, helping him take off one of his unnecessary over shirts, telling him to breathe and take it easy.

"I'm fine." Dean gulps air, mortified. But Sam doesn't say anything bitchy this time. He just sits with him until Dean's breaths even out and the feeling of being underwater recedes.

Eventually, Dean realizes he's holding Sam's hand. He doesn't remember his brother grabbing onto him, or vice versa. He doesn't know who initiated it, but he doesn't let go right away. 

Maybe for the first time, Dean notices that Sam's all grown up. He's taller than Dean now, his hand is bigger, his fingers longer. Even though they haven't trained to face a phantom enemy in years, he knows Sam can take care of himself in a fight, and Dean slipped their old butterfly knife into one of Sam's bags, just in case. 

Dean has to let him go.

He realizes with a start that he's not actually that worried about Sam's safety here in this liberal bubble of privileged kids. He's worried about the fact there won't be anyone in the passenger seat of the Mustang on the drive home. No one's breathing to listen to as he falls asleep tonight. No one to focus all his energy on so he doesn't have any energy left for anything else. 

With Sam by his side, he's never had to consider how alone he truly is. But Sam's not going to be there anymore. Dean has to face up to the fact that he's twenty three years old and he doesn't really have any friends, certainly no family besides Sam and Bobby, who's come to visit twice in the last six years. And though he's gone on dates with a few women over the years, women who asked him out, he's never let it get to sex. He doesn't do that, with anyone.

When he had Sam to take care of, he could ignore how messed up that made him. But now he's not going to have the excuse. Sam's made him promise to go to fucking therapy and one guess as to why. Even Sam, who knows better than to ask Dean to have a conversation about any of this stuff, knows that Dean's a freak. The kid's probably worried about him.

Dean's a little worried about himself. But he can put on a brave face with the best of them.

"I'm okay," he says, voice rough. He pulls his hand from Sam's deliberately. Then he pulls Sam in for a hug and forces himself to let go after a socially appropriate length of time. He doesn't ever want to let go.

"Drive safe."

"I will."

Sam smiles, his own eyes a little unnaturally bright. "I'll see you soon."

"Yeah. 'Course. Be good, Sammy."

"It's Sam, jerk."

"Whatever, bitch." Dean pastes on a smile. He can do this. 

His eyes are wet the entire drive home. 

There's a message from Sam on the answering machine at the apartment when he gets back. He sounds happy. Dean's heart breaks a little at how happy he sounds. He knows he can see him practically whenever he wants, he’s just a drive away, give or take. But he's not going to lean on that. Sam deserves a chance to do this for real. And he supposes this is a chance for him, too. 

The first night is tough. He can't settle without Sam's reassuring presence. He wonders how Sam's faring, then imagines him making friends, meeting girls, and he wishes he hadn't pictured it. Instead, he drinks three fingers of whiskey, turns on a fan for white noise, and falls into an uneasy sleep.

He wallows for a couple weeks, drinking too much beer—it's weird to be able to drink without worrying he's giving Sam a bad example—but he still never allows himself to get so drunk he wouldn't be able to drive to Sam at a moment's notice, just in case. 

It's also strange to be able to jerk off in the comfort of his own bed. He and Sam never talked about it, but there was unspoken agreement that those kinds of activities were limited to whenever one of them was out, or, in emergencies, in the shower only. Dean had his masturbating down to a science. Since Sam used to leave for school early and Dean usually doesn't go into the restaurant until after lunch, he had a good portion of the morning free. He squeezed a lot into those hours—grocery shopping, paying bills, working on the Mustang to keep her in top condition—but he had a ritual he kept to more often than not. After breakfast, before his chores, he'd sit on the couch, tissue box at hand, and take care of business.

For a long time, the act was quick, clinical even, something to keep him from getting too cranky. He was still a teenager for god's sake. But he actively tried not to picture anything while doing it. He could look at women, sometimes, maybe the Victoria's Secret catalog that had been delivered them by mistake that Sam had surreptitiously put at the bottom of a stack of car magazines, as if Dean wouldn't notice it there. But he really wanted to look at different pictures. Pictures of tall, strong guys, guys with body hair and flat pecs. He glanced at an old issue of Sports Illustrated from time to time. Shirtless David Beckham, sweaty and screaming in triumph. 

For a long time, Dean was afraid that if he tried to go there while he was jerking off he'd go someplace he never wanted to visit again. But eventually, he tried it. He tried picturing kissing David Beckham, imagined feeling stubble rub against his cheeks, tried pretending it was Beckham's hand on his dick. Just that made him come almost painfully hard. 

After that, Dean didn't bother going on the occasional date with whatever woman showed interest. Sometimes there was enough money leftover in the grocery budget to grab a men's magazine like GQ. He looked at the ads more than the articles, and he jerked off thinking about guys touching him, making him feel good. He longed sometimes for real porn, but they couldn't afford a computer—Sam used the ones at school or at the library—and he couldn't risk buying a tape and having Sam find it. It wasn't that he thought Sam would judge him. But maybe Sam would want to talk about it, and Dean doesn't want to talk about that.

Dean tries to look on the bright side. Now he can watch porn whenever he wants. He does his chores, goes to work, comes home, drinks a little bit to help him sleep, wakes up in the morning and jerks off. Only now he can do it from the comfort of his own bed. 

Life with Sam at Stanford goes on. Every time Sam calls Dean forces a smile into his voice, and every time Sam sounds…good. Excited about his classes and he likes his roommate who's some math genius from New Jersey, and Dean teases him about his RA whose name is Cindy and who sounds hot. And every time Sam asks him if he's made an appointment with the therapist yet.

"No, Sammy, but I will. I promised you, didn't I?"

"Just do it, Dean. It's not going to kill you. I'll see you in a few weeks, okay?"

A few weeks feels like eternity, but Dean doesn't let himself think about that now. "Be good, Sam."

"You, too."

Sam's been gone for a month when Dean actually screws up the courage to call the number on the piece of paper Sam taped next to the phone pad. He makes an appointment with the pleasant lady at the end of the line for Friday morning. He's got the night off, and he's restless. He puts on his leather jacket and goes to Gordon's, the bar next door to the restaurant he works at, to get as drunk as he dares. It's quiet on a Wednesday night, and the new bartender's working. His name is Aaron. He’s only been working there a few weeks but he has a good memory for faces and favorite drinks and he hands Dean's usual over without a word.

"Cheers." Dean takes a healthy swallow.

"What are we celebrating?" Aaron asks. He has a close-cropped beard and a nice smile.

"Not much. Night off."

"You work next door, right? The Bistro? What's your name?"

"The name's Dean and I'm the sous chef."

"Seriously? Aren't you a little young for sous chef, Dean?"

"I'm twenty-three, and I've been working in restaurant kitchens since I was seventeen."

"No offense man. You must be good to be that high up at a place like that. Kudos."

Dean is good at his job. He's basically second in command in the kitchen now, serving under the executive chef, Ellen, who's tough but fair. He'd started as a line cook and quickly worked his way up. He has a way with both food and with the other personalities that make up a busy, high-end restaurant kitchen. He can soothe ruffled feathers and motivate slower workers to do better. Ellen depends on him for a lot, and she went to bat for him when the owners tried to lowball him at his last performance review. He's grateful for the steady job, the dependable paycheck, even if it's hot, tiring work.

"Thanks. So, you like it here?"

"Better than the last place I worked. Better tippers."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"You do that." Aaron smiles slow and intimate. Dean's stomach feels a little like he's drinking Coke with Mentos instead of whiskey. Aaron turns away to wait on someone else, but he's back before long, refilling Dean's drink without being asked. "On the house."

"You don't have to do that."

"Come on, it's slow as shit in here. Let me have my fun."

"All right. Thanks. What else do you like to do for fun?" The words have a flirty edge that Dean didn't quite mean to layer on there, but the whiskey's gone to his tongue already, apparently.

Aaron grins. "I like dancing. You ever go to Denim?"

Dean freezes. Denim is the only gay club for thirty miles. He's heard of it, never been. Obviously. "No, I haven't." Aaron's smile slips into something more generic, and Dean wants the intimate one back. "Not yet, anyway. When's the best time to go?"

Aaron leans closer. "They have drag queen bingo on Sunday nights. Beer by the bottle is half price when you buy a bingo card. Burgers are decent, too."

"Burgers, beer, and bingo? Sounds like a blast." He winces at the overcompensation.

"Maybe I'll see you there." A group of middle aged women have come in chattering about Manhattans, and Aaron leaves to wait on them.

Dean tries to stay cool but his palms are sweating. What does that mean? Is Aaron expecting Dean to show up? Is it a date? Is Dean seriously considering going to a gay club on drag queen bingo night? He drains his drink, leaves a way too big tip. Aaron's still busy with the group, but he catches his eye as he stands up to leave, Aaron giving him a little smirk, Dean fumbling a smile back as he tries to leave without tripping over his own feet.

 _Smooth, Dean._ He sucks at being gay.


	5. Homework

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean goes to therapy, and then to bingo.

Friday morning. Therapy morning. Dean's so nervous he wakes half an hour before his alarm. He's too nervy to eat, so he goes for a run instead. He's winded after half a mile; it's been a while since he had a regular exercise routine. He pushes himself another mile, then walks back.

Dr. Farnsworth's office is sandwiched between a CPA and a chiropractor in a little office building in the next town. He parks the Mustang, checks his watch. He's on time, but if he sits here like a baby any longer he'll be late. He thinks about leaving, just starting the car up and driving away. But he promised Sam. And Sam said if it sucks he can stop. He goes in.

There are two rooms, a little waiting area out front with some chairs, a potted plant that looks fake, but isn't, and a stack of well thumbed magazines. There's no secretary or anything, no sign of the pleasant-voiced woman he'd made the appointment with, and he stares at the inner door nervously. Is he suppose to knock? Walk in? _Fuck this shit._ He turns his back on it, which is, of course, the exact moment it opens.

"Dean Smith?"

Dean swivels back, faces a medium height, balding man with a friendly smile. "That's me," he says, his voice too loud for the small space.

"Welcome. I'm Jerry. Come on in."

The inner office is a lot like the outer office, except there's only two chairs. One of them has a yellow legal pad sitting on it, so Dean figures that's the doc's chair. He takes the other one, and "Jerry" settles into his, crossing his legs and propping the pad up on his knee.

"So, tell me what brings you here today, Dean."

"Uh. Well, my brother thought it would be a good idea and I told him I'd go, give it a chance."

"And why do you think your brother thought talking to me would be a good idea?"

Dean's been thinking this over himself. There could be any number of reasons, some of which are obvious, others which Dean doesn't dare look at too closely. "I think Sam's worried about me being on my own. He went to college in August—Stanford. Full ride. He's wicked smart. And I've basically raised him since, since our parents passed, it's just been the two of us. So now it's just me, and I think he's worried about me being on me own."

"And how are you doing with your brother away at college?"

"It's all right. It was hard at first. Um, our apartment is really quiet. It's weird not having him there. And I worry about him basically all the time, which is nothing new." Dean's surprised that he feels comfortable talking to this stranger. Something about the small, plain room, and the man's open, patient face makes Dean feel like this is a place out of time. He could be imagining it for all he knows. The real world feels far away. "It's hard having him out of my sight, to be honest. Which I know sounds weird, but it's just the way it's always been."

Dr. Farnsworth—he's not calling him Jerry, like they're on the same bowling team or some shit—asks him a few more questions about Sam and school, then Dean's job at The Bistro. Nothing crazy, nothing that Dean can't answer. There's a lull in the conversation. Dean finds himself asking a question. "So, you think I'm an over protective big brother?"

"Well, it sounds like you and Sam are really close and he cares about your well being. I think you are reacting in a perfectly normal way to having someone who's more than a brother to you, but almost a child as well, leave home for the first time. Have you ever heard of 'empty nest syndrome?'"

Dean shakes his head no.

"When kids leave home, their parents often experience separation anxiety, sadness, worry. But it gets better over time. Keeping busy and keeping in contact with Sam will also help."

"But Sam's not my kid."

"When did you become his guardian?"

"He was twelve. I was eighteen." Seventeen, actually, but Dr. F doesn't need to know that.

He stops writing for a second at that. "You two have been on your own that whole time? Any other family?"

Dean shifts. He has to remind himself that this isn't a social worker and that he and Sam are both legal adults. No one can take Sam away from him now. But it's still hard to not be suspicious after a lifetime of being careful. "Our Uncle Bobby lives in South Dakota. He comes to visit once in a while."

"I see." Dr. F starts writing again. "Your feelings about Sam being away at college, while perfectly normal, might also be more acute since you've been his primary caregiver from a young age. You have obviously done a great job if Sam's at a good school, happy, well-adjusted. What about you, though, Dean? Do you have people you can lean on? Friends, a significant other?"

This is why Dean hadn't wanted to come here in the first place. "I have friends at work. At the restaurant."

Dr. F hums, apparently an indication that he wants Dean to elaborate. "And um, Aaron, the bartender at the place next door to the restaurant. He's a…guy. A friend."

He thinks about Aaron's sort of invitation to Denim for this coming Sunday and his face gets a little hot. Like he's going to tell someone he just met about having a maybe date at a gay club on drag queen bingo night. Just thinking that in his head makes Dean realize what a terrible idea it is. He's certain he's not going to go. The thought that he's so broken he can't even flirt with a nice, cute guy…it's fucking depressing. He lets out a bleak laugh.

"I gotta say, Dr. F, I thought this would be a little more groundbreaking. So far I haven't cried once."

Dr. F doesn't respond to the bait. "You haven't spoken about a girlfriend, or dating."

"I don't date."

Dr. F does that stopping writing thing. Dean's already figured out all his tells.

"Why not?"

Dean shrugs. "I had to take care of Sammy. No time."

"But Sam's in college now. You're free to spend some time on yourself."

"I just. Aaron—the guy from the bar. I thought he might be asking me out the other night." Dean looks carefully at Dr. F to watch his reaction. No pause in his writing this time. No change in his expression. He's just as relaxed and open as ever. Dean doesn't know if he's disappointed or relieved. "I haven't…I mean, I think I want to. I didn't for so long, couldn't. It just seems like maybe I missed my window."

"Dean, you're twenty-three. You have every chance of forming a normal relationship with someone. In fact, I think going on a date with Aaron, or someone else you like, would be a great way for you to alleviate some of your empty nester feelings. It's important that you have a life of your own. So here's some homework. We'll meet again, this time next week. Your job is to spend at least one night between now and then with people your own age, whether it's just friends, or someone you might be interested in romantically, and just have fun."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "Fun?"

"Fun," Dr. F repeats firmly. "I just met you, but I know a few things about you. You're loyal, strong, caring and you love your brother. You raised him. You put him first, ahead of even doing normal things for a person your age. And you did it—you succeeded in helping Sam have a normal life, with goals and dreams that he is currently pursuing. And now it's your turn. Go out, have some fun. Live a little, Dean Smith."

Dean whistles. "You're not what I expected, Dr. F."

"I told you to call me Jerry."

"Yeah, that's not happening." He stands up, feeling somehow lighter, and desperately relieved that he hadn't had to share the darkest parts of himself. "See you next week, Dr. F."

***

Completing the homework turns out to be harder than Dean anticipated. He has to work Friday and Saturday nights, and his stomach is in knots all day Sunday contemplating going to Denim. So very many things could go wrong. Aaron could not show, and then Dean would be friendless, at a gay bar, which sounds absolutely terrifying. Or worse, Aaron could show up—maybe even not alone, see Dean and look at him with pity when he realizes Dean thought he was asking him out. Or worst of all, Aaron could show, and want to actually spend time with Dean. He might want to get to know him. Maybe he'd want to kiss him. So many terrible, terrible options.

Sam calls around six, on his way to dinner with his roommate. "What are you up to tonight?" he asks, as if he doesn't know Dean's normal MO on his nights off are takeout and reality television. They already debriefed about Dean's session with Dr. Farnsworth in Sam's call to Dean on Saturday. Sam had asked how it went, Dean said it didn't suck, Sam said okay, and that was that. Communication.

"I might get a burger at this club. It's bingo night." He leaves out the drag queen part, the gay bar part, and the maybe-date with Aaron part.

"That's cool. I guess. Bingo?" Sam sounds all kinds of confused and Dean smiles even though his brother can't see him, imagining the contortions in Sam's expression as he tries to make sense of it.

"A friend told me about it, they said it was a fun scene."

"A friend? That's great." Sam pauses. "Well, have fun then. At bingo."

"You know it. Be good, Sam."

"Always am."

Dean figures if it's just too out there he can leave. He's an adult. And he likes burgers. He drives the Mustang, finds a parking spot not too far away, but as he approaches the dark-windowed building he's surprised at how many people are spilling out of the doorway. People of all ages, mostly men, but some women, and some men dressed as women, for sure, hollering at people to shell out for their bingo cards.

"You playing, sugar lips?"

Dean looks around and realizes the tall, slim drag queen with the giant blonde bouffant and Madonna-style cone breasts is talking to him. "I guess so."

"Well come on in, sugar lips. Five dollars a board."

Dean hands over a ten dollar bill, gets two boards. The dim front room is packed with people clustered around high tops, and a little stage set up where a busty redhead with a waist the diameter of a pencil is calling numbers. He freezes, instantly conscious that he has no one to share a table with, no way to approach anyone. He's a fucking social moron, only comfortable hanging out with his baby brother or on the line at work. He's most at home tinkering under the hood of the Mustang, the radio tuned to the classic rock station, Sam reading a book in a lawn chair ten feet away in the shade cast by their nondescript apartment building. Sometimes he and Sam go for drives, through wine country or up the 5, just cruising. They camp two or three time a summer, no tent, just some blankets, hot dogs, whiskey and beer. The stars. _That's_ when Dean can relax.

This—noise and strangers, and feeling like everyone's looking at him, wondering what he's doing here, why he's trespassing where he doesn't belong—he's the opposite of relaxed. Every muscle in his body is tight with anxiety.

"Dean, hey, you made it, awesome." It's Aaron, smiling broad, wearing a Hendrix t-shirt and jeans, way more casual than the black button-down they make him wear at Gordon's. He looks good, and Dean manages to push his mouth into a smile. "Come over, I was just going to get the next round. What do you want? Never mind—I know your poison. Dean, this is Bela, total fag hag, be warned, and my buddy Benny, he's actually a responsible adult, teaches first grade. Not sure why he hangs out with us. Guys, this is Dean, he's the sous chef at The Bistro. Be right back." He disappears, leaving Dean to face a skinny brunette and a bearded guy a little older than Dean who looks at him with kind eyes.

"Dean, you gorgeous creature," Bela says in what has to be a fake British accent. She sounds like a Spice Girl. "Aaron did mention you might be stopping by."

"He did?"

"He said the best part of his new job was making friends with you," Benny says. He's also got an accent, some sort of Cajun drawl. "Nice to meet you, Dean."

"Thanks." Dean takes an available stool, slides his bingo cards onto the table. Bela has four cards, Benny has one. "Interesting scene."

"Oh, we're here every week, darling," Bela says. "I play to win."

"The best prize is free wings from the bar," Benny says.

"I play for bragging rights, of course."

Aaron comes back, distributes a fresh round of drinks. "You want a burger? I should have asked you before."

"It's okay, I can go order in a minute."

Aaron nods. "Cool." No one says anything and Dean realizes something. Aaron's actually nervous. He'd mentioned to his friends that Dean might show. He wouldn't have done that if Dean was just another random customer from his bar. Dean suddenly feels like he might be able do this.

He leans in Aaron's direction, putting his mouth close to his ear. "So, you gotta tell me how to beat Bela at bingo, man."

Aaron turns to give him a grin. Their faces are a couple inches apart, so close Dean can see the flecks of gold in Aaron's warm brown eyes. Aaron's gaze drops to vicinity of Dean's mouth, then back up. "Let's put our boards together. Strength in numbers."

"Sounds like a plan." Dean hasn't had a plan in a long time. But tonight, he's finding his footing. Starting with winning bingo, and ending with getting Aaron to kiss him before the night is through.

Two hours, burgers, and ten rounds of bingo later, Bela's won twice, Benny's begged off home since he has to face a classroom of six-year-olds first thing in the morning, and Aaron and Dean are sitting thigh to thigh, covering their boards with the zeal of extremely competitive drunk people.

"B-10," Miss Anastasia, the redhead caller, yells. Aaron and Dean reach for the counter at the same time, fingers brushing. "Bingo!" Dean yells. Aaron whoops and slings his arms around Dean's shoulder.

"Good lord," Bela says with disgust. "You two are ridiculous. I better go home and get my beauty sleep." She gives Aaron a buss on the cheek and finger-waves in Dean's direction. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Then she's gone and it's just the two of them. Dean's pretty buzzed and riding high on their one win—which indeed, consists of a coupon for free wings at the bar. Miss Anastasia starts lip syncing to a Blondie song, and the patrons who mostly came for the bingo start filing out.

"One for the road?" Aaron asks.

"Not sure I should be driving, to be honest." 

He decides his wallet can take the hit of both another drink and a cab home, when Aaron says, "I live a couple of blocks from here. You can crash with me if you want."

"Oh." Dean's not sure what to make of the offer. He's about to say he can't, he's got his little brother waiting for him. But Sam's not there. "That's really—that'd be great. Thanks."

"No problem."

They settle their tabs and Aaron leads him out the door. They're not touching, but they're standing closer than two guys out for a night at an ordinary club might be.

"That was surprisingly fun," Dean says when the noise of Denim fades behind them. It's almost midnight, the streets dark and empty on a Sunday night.

"Told you. Glad you came."

"Me too." Dean thinks he's definitely fulfilled the terms of Dr. F's assignment. He's almost looking forward to Friday.

Aaron lives in a one bedroom walk-up over a dry cleaners. "It's kind of shitty, but at least I don't have roommates. What about you?" They flop onto the only slightly dilapidated couch. Aaron pushes off his sneakers, offers Dean a drink, but he shakes his head. No sense in having a bigger hangover tomorrow than necessary.

"Same. I live with my brother, but he's at college right now."

"Stanford, right? I think you told me the first time you came into Gordon's."

"You remember that? Yeah, Sammy's at Stanford." Dean spares a minute to think about what Sam's doing right now. Smart money would be on sleeping, or studying. Dean smiles thinking about Sam staying up late reading on a Sunday night.

"I remember thinking you were the hottest guy to come to the bar since I started working there."

"Yeah?" Dean suddenly realizes how close Aaron is. "You get a lot of hot guys in there?"

"Not like you. Have you seen yourself? Like fucking James Dean with your leather jacket and those fucking cheekbones."

Dean feels those cheekbones warm up under Aaron's praise. "I'm nothing special."

"Come on, I've been wanting to kiss you all night."

This is it. This is what he's been waiting for. What he's been afraid of. "So do it, then." He tries to make it a challenge, instead of a plea.

Aaron doesn't seem to care about his tone, takes him at his word. He erases the space between them, kisses Dean full on the mouth. Dean remembers after about ten seconds to kiss back, opening up his mouth, relishing the feeling of Aaron's beard against his skin. That's all the they do, kiss, Aaron's tongue dancing against Dean's for a long minute, long enough for Dean to panic, and ache, and get a little hard, and panic again before coming up for air.

"You okay?" Aaron asks.

"I'm a little dizzy."

"Shit. I'll get you some water. I'm a bartender, I should know better."

"No, it's okay. We don't have to stop."

Aaron smiles, that soft, warm smile that makes Dean feel like he can trust him. "Don't go anywhere." He gets up and Dean can hear him filling a water glass in the kitchen. He brings it over and Dean takes a sip, thirstier than he thought.

"You wanna sleep in my room?"

Dean nods. He's mentally half out the door, but he really, really wants to see what happens next. If it's too much, he can always leave. Aaron probably doesn't have a gun, and Dean's got his knife. He's sobering up. He can protect himself, if he has to.

He stands up and follows Aaron into the small bedroom. The bed's a double, unmade but not dirty. Dean sets the water down, reaches to unlace his boots. Aaron switches on the stereo on his dresser. Something synth-y streams out. "I like to fall asleep to music," Aaron says.

"Cool," Dean croaks as Aaron unbuckles his belt.

"Bathroom's through here, if you need it. I'll be right back." He disappears into the small bathroom. Dean hears water running. It would be so easy to take off, avoid Gordon's forever. Nothing would have to change. In his heart, he knows it's too late for that.

By the time Aaron comes out of the bathroom in a t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants, Dean's wearing just his blue boxers and gray undershirt, lying back on Aaron's pillows. His knife is stowed inside his boot by his side of the bed. Aaron's eyes widen as he takes in the sight of him, and Dean's dick twitches responsively at Aaron's open perusal.

"You're out of my league," Aaron says with a self-deprecating grin. "You know that right?"

"Um. Not really. In fact, I'm kind of new to this," Dean says, hoping Aaron will draw his own conclusions.

"Seriously?" Aaron doesn't seem all that surprised, though. "You just tell me if you want to stop." He climbs on the bed next to Dean. "Sound good?"

Dean swallows. "Sounds good." Then he leans in and kisses the boy.


	6. Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean reports on his homework and tells Sam something he already knows.

Friday morning. Dean's early. He knocks on the inner door and Dr. F opens up.

"You're looking chipper this morning, Dean."

"I did it. I did the homework." Dean brushes past the doc and sits down in the chair, but he's too keyed up and gets right back up again. 

The doc doesn't seem to mind him pacing, just settles into his own seat. "Tell me about it."

Dean tells him about bingo night, and Aaron, and meeting Bela and Bobby. He tells him about going back to Aaron's. He even explains that they kissed, that he spent the night, but they just fooled around a little, nothing major. And he reports on hanging out with Aaron every night their schedules have synched up this week. "We're going to a movie tomorrow—a matinee because we both have to work Saturday night."

Dr. F listens to all of this in his calm, impassive way, looks up from his notepad when Dean's flow of words finally halts. "I'm proud of you Dean. How did it feel to connect with someone else like that? Physically, emotionally?"

"It felt—" Dean's about to give some generic answer about it feeling fucking good, thank you very much, but his voice cracks. "It felt—" Fuck. He is not going to cry. He takes a deep breath, and the words come out shaky, but no tears. "I figured I was…. But I didn't know it would feel like that."

"Like what?"

Dean sinks down on his chair, tries to put it into words. "Like hot. And cold. Like turned on, but also sad? Sammy told me about this scientist once, and his cat, and how the cat was in a box or something and he didn't know if the cat was alive or dead and until he checked it could be either. I guess I wasn't really sure that it was really real, that I was really…the way I am. Because I hadn't…not like this. But yeah. I liked it. I mean, I am."

"You are…can you try to say it, Dean?"

Dean's eyes burn. He blinks, summons up some of his bravado. "Wow, Doc. You're really bringing your A game today, huh?"

"Take your time."

"Fuck." Dean rubs his eyes. Dr. F waits patiently. Finally he just wrenches it out, like a cat spitting up a hairball. "I'm gay. There. It's not like I didn't know."

"What we know and what we say are different things. And I have a new homework assignment for you."

"Jesus. I got my GED so I'd never have to do homework again." Dean grumbles on principal—it's his job to make Dr. F earn it.

"I want you to tell Sam."

"What?" Dean's hackles immediately rise. Impossible. He's just getting used to the fact that he actually got past first base with someone. He's not ready to tell Sam about this.

"Dean, look at me." Dean meets Dr. F's gaze, direct and clear. "Don't you think he probably already knows?"

Motherfucker.

"Don't you think he'll be so happy when you tell him, when you share that part of yourself with him?"

Dean realizes Dr. F's won when he just says, "Over the phone?" 

"Sometimes things are easier to say when we aren't face to face. But you could drive down and tell him in person if you feel that's best."

"I'll think about it."

They spend the rest of their session talking about cars. Dr. F asks a few questions about the Mustang and then for advice as he's about to be looking for a car for his fifteen-year-old daughter. Dean figures the car talk is a reward for saying the g-word. But it works, because when he walks out of the session he's feeling surprisingly good.

It's only when he thinks about picking up the phone and calling Sam that his stomach does a free fall. He's not precisely sure why he doesn't want to tell Sam. Or it's not that he doesn't want to tell him, just that it's awkward as fuck. They may be close. He may be able to tell Sam's mood by the set of his shoulders and Sam can tell when Dean had a bad day at the restaurant by the way he closes the refrigerator door, but they know those things without talking about them. They don't talk about their feelings, much. Sometimes Sam asks and Dean says everything's fine. Sometimes Dean feels like a failure because he knows Sam's been through almost as much shit as he has and he ended up with an emotionally repressed brother for a guardian, and that can't have been good for the kid. Maybe Sam needs therapy, too. But the point is, they don't have to talk. They somehow just know, anyway. 

_Don't you think he probably already knows?_

That's it. Sam must know. That's why he wanted Dean to go to therapy, so that he'd finally come to terms with it, finally let himself be normal, or at least as normal as a gay man in 2002 America can be.

So what's the harm in actually saying it out loud?

Dean waffles for three days. He and Aaron hang out. He thinks about talking it over with him, but mostly they talk about movies and their jobs and then they make out and jerk each other off, which is awesome. Dean's a big fan and he thinks he pretty much ready for something more, though Aaron's been patient enough. It occurs to him that if he and Aaron keep seeing each other, Sam will find out anyway.

Tuesday Dean works, and he tries Sam's cell beforehand so he can use work as an excuse to get of the phone if he needs it. Yeah, he's a pussy. What else is new?

Sam's cell goes straight to voicemail. Dean pushes away the feeling of uneasiness and tries his landline. The phone rings twice and then Sam picks up.

"Why didn’t you answer your cell?"

"Hello to you, too, Dean." 

"It went straight to voicemail."

"Sorry, I think it’s out of battery." 

"Well then charge it."

"I will. God." Annoyed little brother voice.

"Sorry. So. How are you?" Dean cringes. _How are you, I'm fine, that's what this conversation is?_

"Fine. Got a test tomorrow but I feel okay about it."

"You’ll do great. So I had another session with Dr. F."

"Oh yeah?" Sam's voice perks up.

"Yeah. He’s pretty cool. So far."

"That’s great, Dean." Voice warm and approving. Like Dean's done something right.

"Yeah, so there’s something I need to tell you." He can feel Sam still on the other end of the phone, if that's possible.

"What is it?" Sam's voice, low.

"Yeah, so this makes me feel completely after school special, but it’s my homework from Dr. F so. I, uh, I’m gay, Sam." Silence. "Sam?"

"That’s, that’s great. I mean, thank you for telling me." Sam's voice is unnaturally loud over the wire, but genuine. 

"You knew didn’t you?"

"No! Well, yeah, I thought maybe. It doesn't matter. Thanks for telling me, really. I'm glad you did." Sam starts off defensive and ends up sweet. Dean knew he was being an idiot not wanting to talk to Sam about this, but it's still nice to get his acceptance.

"So what's your test for?"

"Ethics."

"You're going to do great, Sam."

"Thanks." There's silence again, but not awkward. "So I was thinking when I come home for Thanksgiving we could go see the new Harry Potter movie."

"Oh, Aaron and I actually saw that over the weekend. I'd see it again, though."

"Who’s Aaron?"

"This guy. He's a bartender at Gordon's. We've been hanging out."

"Hanging out?" Sam's voice has a bitchy little tone to it that Dean doesn't know what to do with.

"Gotta go to work. Good luck on your test. Be good, Sam."

"You, too."

Dean hangs up before he can start feeling bad. It could have gone a lot worse. Again, he's pretty proud of himself for being able to report completed homework to Dr. F. He wonders what the old man will come up with for next week's assignment.

***

He should have quit while he was ahead. He'd had a good week. Sam had called him to say he'd aced the Ethics test. He and Aaron hadn't seen too much of each other because of work, but they're going on a date, a real date, not a bingo date, on Sunday night, and Dean's thinking about convincing Aaron to let him suck his cock. He doesn't think it's going to be that difficult. He rolls into Dr. F's on Friday morning with the swagger of having told Sam and survived.

Dr. F smiles at him warmly and tells him that's great to hear. Then he asks him about John.

"Tell me about your father, Dean," are his exact words. Dean feels the smile slip off his face and shatter into pieces on the floor of Dr. F's office.

Dr. F isn't a moron. He knows there's more to Dean's story than being the sole caregiver for his little brother from a young age. And Dean knows that if he's going to keep seeing Dr. F, he's going to have to talk about John at some point. But that doesn't mean he has to like it.

"What do you want to know?"

"What was his name?"

Dean trips on the past tense. He figures it's implied that John's dead, but to tell the truth, he doesn't know if he's dead or alive. John came through Bobby's about six months after they left, worse for wear, but Bobby had feigned ignorance of the boys' whereabouts and John had seemingly accepted it. If Bobby's seen him since, he hasn't said, but Dean's sure if there was word that John had kicked the bucket, Bobby would drop a line.

"John."

"And your mother?"

"Mary."

"How did they die?"

"Fuck. You sure you want to hear about this?" It's been so long since Dean's allowed himself to think about this, he has to struggle to dredge up the details from his recollection. "My mom was murdered. Someone broke into our house. Dad was at work. I was four. He was probably looking for cash for a high, but he had a gun, and he shot my mother. She was able to get Sam out of his crib and told me to take him. Protect him." _Take Sam. Protect him._

"He shot her four times, then set the house on fire. He escaped. Most of the house burned down." He remembers the smell of water gushing from the fireman's hoses, the contrast between the acrid smoke of the burning wood, melting plastic.

"What happened next?"

Dean looks up at Dr. F. Blinks. Next? He's got a wave of sensations, of images, but it's hard to sort them into anything sensible. He was four years old, his life turned inside out.

"We stayed in Lawrence for a while. Until the insurance money ran out, probably. Then Dad lost his job and we started moving around. What can I say, it wasn't great. String of motels. Dad drank. I basically took care of Sam, tried to get Dad to put us in school when we staying someplace long enough." He leaves out the part where John trained them like soldiers, gun and knife practice, sparring practice, sprints, survival training. It makes John sound like a crackpot in addition to being a neglectful drunk. Maybe next session.

"That sounds like a big burden for you."

"Look, I did the best I could." Sam's turned out pretty well, hasn't he?

"That's not what I mean. Dean, you were a child. You should have had an adult in your life who put you first, rather than relied on you to the be the parent for your baby brother. You raised Sam, and you raised yourself. And I'll wager you took care of your dad more often than not, too."

Dean's chest starts constricting. "Yeah, so?"

"That's a lot for one person to take. You survived that. That's a very high-stress situation to be in day in and day out. I want you to acknowledge that your childhood was traumatic."

"Traumatic. Like a car wreck."

"Yes, exactly like a car wreck happening in slow motion for thirteen years."

"Shit, Doc, that's dark."

"It doesn't bother you that your father put you in that position?"

Dean thinks about that. Sure, in a world in which everything was fair and life was rainbows and lollipops, yeah, it sucks that he got a shitty deal. But he'd never thought about it exactly like that. "I was just glad to be there with Sam."

"You love your brother."

"'Course I do."

"He loves you."

"I know that." Dean does, and yet, his mind calls up the tone Sam had used when he'd been asking about Aaron.

"I think you're remarkable, Dean Smith."

"Winchester." The name slips out without Dean meaning it to.

Dr. F looks at him.

"Dean Winchester. That was my name before. Dean Smith's always felt like a bit of a phony."

"I think you're remarkable, Dean Winchester."


	7. Thanksgiving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam comes home for Thanksgiving.

Sam's coming home for Thanksgiving. Dean was going to pick him up, but his work shifts didn't line up and he's taking a couple of days off when Sam's home, so he can't be picky. Sam ends up taking the bus. It takes twice as long as it should, but at least he arrives late enough that Dean's off shift and can make it to the bus depot.

The interior of the Mustang is toasty warm; the midnight November air feels chilly by comparison. Dean notices himself jiggling his leg. He's… _anxious_. Naming the emotion the way Dr. F encourages him to immediately helps him calm down a degree. 

He's been seeing the doc every week and he feels different. He feels more like himself, if that makes any sense. And it's not just because he's been able to openly acknowledge his sexuality for the first time in his life, and it's not because he's embarked on his first adult relationship. It's that with Dr. F, he can actually be honest. Dr. F never judges, he never acts surprised. As fucked up as Dean is, he can imagine Dr. F's heard ten time worse. And it feels good to be able to talk to someone without having to pretend everything's okay, the way he's had to be with Sam their entire lives.

When Dean talked about that, how he always felt he had to be careful about what he said to Sam, Dr. F encouraged him to be more open with his brother. "You might be surprised how much he can handle, and how it changes your relationship."

"We're already super close." Aren't they? They know everything about each other. Nearly. They've fought, sure, and chafed at their close quarters from time to time. But since they took that bus out of Tennessee bound for their new life, there hasn't been anything they asked for that the other didn't try to make possible. There's nothing Sam could ask of Dean that he wouldn't cut his own arm off to make happen.

That's how he got into this therapy nonsense in the first place. Because Sam asked him to do it and Dean couldn't say no.

He has to admit maybe Sam had a point.

The bus is a few minutes late, so Dean fusses with the radio, trying to get the classic rock station. Aaron's really into EDM and House music, and Dean's trying to like it, he really is, but give him honest-to-god rock and roll any day of the week. 

Things with Aaron have been going good—they see each other three or four nights a week, sometimes just at the bar, where Dean drinks for free and has a rapport going with the regulars, and sometimes they go out, either to Denim on bingo night, or for drinks with Bela, sometimes Benny, who's a really cool guy, and gay, too, which it had taken Dean a minute to pick up on. Benny and Aaron are just friends, though, and Dean all of a sudden he has two gay friends. Aaron counts as a friend, right? 

They quickly graduated from blow jobs to Dean topping Aaron. Aaron lets Dean set the pace, every time. They haven't explicitly talked about it, but Aaron's an intuitive guy, as Dr. F might say. Dean doesn't have to always say what's on his mind, and Aaron tends to give him what he needs. It's nice. Easy. And it turns out he really fucking likes sex. He'd been a little nervous to top the first time, but they'd used, like, a gallon of lube and had prepped for ages. By the time Dean slipped inside, Aaron was loose and ready and an adorably pathetic mess. It didn't take long for both of them to come, but the whole thing gave Dean confidence, and it had only gotten better from there.

He hasn't bottomed. Again, it's not something they've talked about, but Dean knows he can't. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

He hasn't talked about That Night with Dr. F, but he figures it's only a matter of time before they work their way around to it. It's something he's never talked about to a living soul. But he's starting to believe maybe it could be something that he could actually heal from, instead of hide from.

The bus pulls up, golden headlights spotlighting the Mustang for a second as it swings around the depot circle. Dean tries to pick Sam out of the small crowd that steps off. He thinks he spots him—but no, that guy's too tall. And then he turns in profile and Dean can see that it is Sam, gangly giant with hair hanging in his eyes. He wolf-whistles and waves out the side of the window. "Sammy!"

Dean can't exactly see his expression in the dim light, but he imagines Sam rolling his eyes as he shoulders his backpack and heads for the Mustang. Dean hadn't planned on getting out of the car, but he can't seem to help himself. He gets out, grabs Sam in a bone-crushing hug. Sam holds on just as hard, and something in Dean's chest that's been clenched vise-tight relaxes for the first time since he drove away from Stanford in August.

"Welcome home, Sam." He ruffles Sam's hair. "What the hell happened. Did you grow or is this just hair height?"

Sam ducks his chin, but he can't hide the dimples that shine as bright as lighthouse beams. "Bit of both, I guess."

"Damn, son, I didn't know you had more growing left to do."

"I wouldn't be surprised if the university rescinds my scholarship on account of I'm eating them out of stock at the dining hall."

"That's my boy. Please tell me you're eating more than lettuce and sprouts."

"I'm eating more than lettuce and sprouts."

"Well, good. We're having an actual turkey for Turkey Day tomorrow, so gear up."

"You're cooking?"

"Damn right. But not baking. Aaron's bringing the pie."

"Aaron's coming for Thanksgiving?" Sam's voice doesn't change—much.

"Yeah. I thought I told you."

"You must have told your other brother."

"Smart ass." Dean slows down at a red light. "It's okay, though? I thought it could be a nice way for you two to get to know each other."

"Yeah, sounds good."

"And then Friday, if the weather's good, I thought we could go hiking. Do that trail you like up north of Sonoma. Just the two of us. Bring some leftovers."

"Sounds great."

Dean doesn't imagine the warmth that bleeds back into Sam's voice. He wonders if Sam knows he's being weird about Aaron. Is it because Aaron's a guy? But Sam's always been Mr. Tolerance. One of his best friends in high school, not that he had many of them, had come out as bi senior year and Sam had gone on and on about how proud he was of him. And Sam hadn't even met Aaron yet, so it can't be personal.

Dean mentally shrugs. "Good to have you home, Sam."

"Good to be home, Dean."

***

Thanksgiving dinner goes well. Sam's perfectly nice to Aaron, even gets animated, no pun intended, when it turns out the both of them like the same dorky Japanese anime series. The meal Dean cooks is really top-notch, if he does say so himself. The pumpkin pie Aaron brings is the low point—the crust is soggy and the filling too sweet, and Dean doesn't make a huge deal of it, but he could have made one ten times as good.

Aaron's spent the night a few times since they started dating, but he obviously can't do that now that Sam's back. Dean could have changed things around—put Sam's bed in the living room or something—but he hadn't. There's still only the one bedroom, still with the two beds. Dean's almost twenty four years old and he still sleeps in a double bed that's honestly too small for him, let alone him and Aaron. He ought to upgrade to a queen at least, but then there wouldn't be any room for Sam's extra long twin. Which is also ridiculous for a six-foot-four nineteen-year-old to try to sleep comfortably on.

After Aaron kisses him goodnight and leaves with a package of leftovers, Dean stares at Sam's bed dubiously. "You were tossing and turning all night last night." Dean had fallen asleep instantly with the comfort of having Sam back where he belonged, and then been woken up a few times by Sam's restlessness.

"It's the same size as my bed at school, Dean, it's fine."

"Maybe we should get a sofa bed. Some of them are really comfortable, and then you could spread out when you're here."

"If you want to get a sofa bed, get a sofa bed. But for now, these are the beds we have. And I'm going to sleep," Sam says, taking first turn in the bathroom.

Dean finishes up the last of the dishes, flips off the lights in the kitchen and living room, and peels off his damp t-shirt on his way to the bedroom. Sam comes out of the bathroom at the same moment, bumping into him in the tiny hallway. He's wearing a t-shirt and boxers and he glances down Dean's torso, then up again. He snarls, "Watch where you're going," and stalks to his bed, flipping down the covers as if they've personally offended him.

"Watch yourself," Dean shoots back. "You this way with your college roommate? Don't you have to share a bathroom with like twenty dudes?"

"It's a co-ed dorm, Dean."

"Seriously? You get to shower with chicks?"

"Not exactly," Sam says. "Aren't you going to shower?"

"Yeah, I better. I feel like I'm covered in turkey grease."

"That explains the smell, then," Sam says.

"Hey, did you or did you not say that the turkey was the best you ever ate while helping yourself to three portions of said turkey?"

"I may have done."

"Well, there you go."

Sam's voice, softer now. "Thanks for making dinner. It was the best Thanksgiving food ever."

Dean clears his throat. He can't help but think of the dozen years they spent Thanksgiving walking on eggshells, the anniversary having passed not long before, John often still in its thrall. Thanksgiving usually consisted of diner take out, congealed mashed potatoes and gravy, rubbery turkey, gray green beans. The pie was the only part that ever tasted anything like it was supposed to. Huh. Maybe that's why Dean likes pie so much. He makes a mental note to run that by Dr. F the next time they meet.

"So, hike tomorrow?"

"Hike tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Sam."

***

Friday's bright and warm and they make two loaded leftover sandwiches apiece, pack bottles of water and a six pack of beer, and head northeast, past Sonoma to one of the state parks in the area. Dean only owns one pair of shorts; he's wearing them in defiance of his embarrassing bow legs. He learned the hard way not to hike in jeans. Meanwhile, Sam looks like the poster boy for Patagonia in a nylon t-shirt, a vest with a million silly little pockets, but that probably contains enough survival gear to get them over Donner Pass, should it be required, and shorts that show off his nut brown, mile-long legs. 

Sam sets the speed. Dean's sweating after the first half mile.

"Slow down, Sammy, we got all day."

"The sooner we get to the top, the sooner we can eat," Sam promises. Dean picks up the pace.

It's worth it when they do the reach the lookout, beautiful views of wine country spread out below them, and some low elevation pines offering them shade beneath which to eat their picnic.

"Any cute girls on your hall?" Dean asks. He figures it's only fair to tease Sam now that Sam's met Aaron.

"A few," Sam says noncommittally. "Everyone's really smart, really focused. Most of the people I meet know their major already. I feel dumb not knowing what I want to be when I grow up."

"You got time. What's college for if you don't get to experiment?"

"You ever wish you'd gone? It's not too late, you know."

"To college? Nah." Dean had honestly never thought about it before. He always had to work. He still has to. Last he checked no one died and left him a million dollars. He's so proud of Sammy for getting a full ride at Stanford, but when his four years are up, he's going to have to start supporting himself. "Maybe you should go to the career office—they have those, right?—and get some help figuring out your major."

"Yeah, I could do that." Sam takes a swig of water and his mouth glistens wet in the late afternoon sunlight. Dean blinks, looks away. "You think Bobby's paperwork could take any scrutiny if I wanted to go to law school?"

"Jesus, I have no idea." Dean glances around, but there's no one there but them birds. "Our birth certificates were real enough to get us new social security cards. We got passports, right? Should be good enough for anything else."

"Yeah, I suppose so."

"A lawyer, huh?"

"It would be nice to be able to help people," Sam says.

"You'd be real good at it, too, Sam."

"Thanks."

***

The four days with Sam home fly by way too fast, and then he's back on the bus bound for Palo Alto. Dean doesn't have a panic attack saying goodbye this time, but it's only four weeks until Sam's back for Christmas break. They hug too hard when the bus pulls up, but who the fuck cares.

Dean stays in the Mustang until the bus disappears down the road, then he wipes his eyes and calls Aaron. "You wanna hang out tonight?"

"Sam still in town?"

"Nah, he's on his way back."

"Sure. Your place or mine?"

The apartment still smells like Sam. "Yours."


	8. Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean buys a bed and meets Jess. Sam and Dean take a road trip.

The post-Thanksgiving sales are still going on when Dean decides he's got to do something about the bed situation. He hates putting stuff on the single credit card he's got, but with the sale and picking a midrange option, he can swing it and figure he can pay it off in a few months. He gets a queen. The memory foam one costs the same as the regular model, so why not. He also finds a sofa bed that folds out into a queen. He'd bet the Mustang that the sofa bed is going to be uncomfortable as hell. When Sam comes home, Dean will just sleep on the sofa and Sam can have his bed. Problem solved.

Aaron whistles appreciatively after everything's set up—Sam and Dean's old beds having been donated to the Goodwill, the old couch going to a dishwasher at work who just moved in with his girlfriend.

"Turns out you are a real adult," Aaron jokes. "I like it."

"Yeah?" Dean likes it, too. The bedroom feels airier, and with brand new navy sheets and comforter, it's a real upgrade. He rearranged the bedside tables. The one that used to be by Sam's bed was empty except for a dusty copy of _The Outsiders_ stamped with Sam's old middle school's name on the inside cover, which Dean moved to the bookshelf in the living room. He slides open the drawer now to show Aaron its contents—lube and condoms.

"Classy," Aaron says with a smirk.

"Always. Want to try out the memory foam?"

"Thought you'd never ask."

Later, Aaron's dozing and Dean's enjoying the space to spread out. He's content at the moment—orgasms have that effect on him—but he still recognizes this as the end of an era. He and Sam might never share a room again. It's normal, hell, it's healthy. But he's still going to miss it.

He's about to close his eyes, when Aaron speaks. Dean hadn't been sure he was still awake. "Dean?"

"Yeah."

"Have you thought about—I mean. We've been spending a lot of time together and I wanted to check that you're cool with how things are."

Two months in and they're having this talk. Dean takes an even breath. "I'm cool, sure. What about you?"

"I like you, Dean. And I think what we have is kinda good."

"Kinda good?"

"It's good."

Dean knows what he means. Easy. Convenient, even, with the way they work next door to each other, and similar hours. "But?"

"I know you haven't had that much experience, and believe me, it's been my pleasure to show you, but I just thought maybe you'd want the freedom to, I don't know, explore more? Try new people. You could go to Denim and pick up any guy in there in five minutes, trust me."

Dean considers this. He gets that most twenty-four-year-old guys might want to sow their oats. But he's not most guys. The idea of going home with a stranger, someone he doesn't know, can't trust—that's not happening. Dean's dealt with years of horniness on his own to avoid exactly that situation. He's not about to change now. 

Aaron's sweet, and attractive, maybe not a ten, but Dean's not shallow. Lord knows he has his own flaws. He can relax around Aaron. Sam being gone, it's nice to have someone else to talk to, to take care of a little bit. He's not head over heels for Aaron, he likes the guy, he likes the sex, but he's not looking for love, anyway. He's never wanted a white picket fence or a bunch of kids. Surviving was the name of the game for so long. Now that he and Sam seem to have survived, well, he's content to ride this wave and see where it takes him.

"I'm not interested in that. Is that okay?"

Aaron sits up, so Dean can see his eyes. "It's okay with me, Dean. I just wanted you to know if you ever meet someone or, I don't know, even want to hook up with someone, just let me know. It won't bother me."

"Really?"

"Really. And I'm not saying I'm looking for that, because I like you. But, you know. I'm a bartender. Sometimes I get offers."

"Sure, sure. Same goes," Dean says quickly. He's not going to be the needy one here. He supposes it's for the best that they're honest with each other. If Aaron wants these to the be the terms, who's Dean to argue?

"Okay." Aaron lays back down, his head on Dean's chest. "You want me to go home?"

"Nah. You should get the full memory foam experience." Dean smiles, traces a pattern on Aaron's bicep. But it takes him a long time to fall asleep.

***

"Hey Sam, I'm about to go in to see Dr. F. What's up?"

"Oh, sorry, this'll be quick."

"No, I'm glad you called. We need to figure out when I should come down, right?"

"That's what I was calling about. Remember that girl Jess I mentioned? She invited me to her parents' in Marin. Just for the first few days of break. Then they're going skiing or something, and I'll come home."

Dean takes a beat to process, and when it sinks in what Sam's saying his stomach roils unpleasantly. "The first few days of break? That's Christmas. I got Christmas Eve off for our Die Hard marathon."

Sam's voice is at once apologetic and nervous. "Yeah, I know, man. I don't have to go. She just asked me and I thought you and Aaron might want to hang alone."

"Aaron's Jewish. He's working doubles to cover the bartenders with kids." Dean's aware his voice is coming out hard, almost like he's mad.

"Okay, I'll just tell Jess I can't. I don't know what I was thinking."

Suddenly, Dean gets it, and his anger and disappointment drain away and a different, more complicated emotion takes their place. "Oh shit. You like this girl. You two official, or is this a just friends Christmas-with-the-parents invite?"

"It's not like that. Exactly. We've gone out a few times. She was complaining about how boring the holidays are at her folks, and I just kind of said I could come keep her company as a joke, and then she was like that would be amazing and…"

"She pretty?"

"Gorgeous."

Dean swallows. He knew this was going to happen eventually. "Out of your league then."

"Definitely."

Shit. Dean's never heard Sam talk about anybody like this. He clears his throat. "You go. It's fine. We can do Christmas when you get home. It's not like it's our best holiday, anyway." Christmas as kids was usually bleak and anti-climactic. Since they moved to Petaluma, Dean has tried to make it festive at least, with lights and a miniature tree. His favorite part of the holiday once they were one their own was just hanging with Sam, warm and safe. He never cared about Christmas carols or presents or any of that shit. His best present was always just Sam, looking at him like hanging a string of dollar-store Christmas lights was hanging the moon. 

"You sure?"

"Yeah. It's no big deal. Besides, you'll still have like three weeks before your semester starts."

Sam sounds relieved and a little excited. "Thanks, Dean. Jess is really cool. You'd like her."

Dean has a sudden urge to get off the phone before he gets a rundown of this Jess person's plethora of fantastic qualities. "Gotta go, Sam. Be good."

"You too."

Dr. F picks up on Dean's mood the minute he steps in the room. "What's wrong, Dean?"

"Nothing," he says, knowing full well Dr. F isn't going to let him get away with that. "Just talked to Sam. He's going to some chick's for Christmas instead of coming home."

"How do you feel about that?"

Dean feels shitty about it and he feels shitty about feeling shitty, which he tries to explain to the doc. "Sam deserves to have a normal life, meet a nice girl who wants to take him home to her family. That's the whole point of everything I've done, was so that Sam could do whatever he wants with his life. He's thinking of doing pre-law, did I tell you that?"

"You mentioned it."

"So if he wants to see where this leads, play happy family with this girl—I mean, I want him to have that."

"It's okay to want your brother to be happy and still be sad that he's going to miss Christmas."

"Two feelings at once, that's high level stuff for me, Doc." Dean smiles, but he thinks maybe it _is_ a little too sophisticated for him.

"You're allowed to have as many emotions as you want to have."

"I don't want to feel bad about this. I want him to be able to do this and not have it be a big deal."

"What we want and what we feel don't always line up neatly."

"Yeah. Like, Sam—he says he's happy that I'm getting out there, that Aaron's in my life. But then he doesn't really want to hang with the two of us. They get along okay, but its not as easy as I thought it would be."

"Perhaps Sam's a little jealous of you having someone besides him in your life. The way you're a little jealous of the girl he's going to spend Christmas with."

"Jealous?" The label hadn't occurred to him, but the feeling fits. "It was just the two of us for so long." Dean traces his left hand knuckles with the pad of his right index finger. "Sometimes I think we'd both be happy if the rest of the world just disappeared."

"It's rare to have that kind of connection to someone," Dr. F says, "but understandable given the history the two of you share. However, both you and Sam deserve to have a larger support network, more people to love and who will love you. Someday Sam might get serious about someone, want to get married, have kids. You'll have nieces and nephews. Your family will grow. That doesn't mean you and Sam love each other any less. In my experience, love begets love."

Dean tries to imagine Sam and a faceless girl, mooning over each other, because he can only imagine the girl will be head over heels for his tall, too-adorable-for-his-own-good brother. He tries to imagine standing up with Sam while the girl walks down the aisle, tries to imagine Thanksgiving dinners with him and maybe Aaron, maybe some other guy, and Sam and his girl. Little kids at the table. He tries to imagine growing old and watching Sam live a full, normal life. It's everything he should want, and yet something about it unsettles him.

"I hope you have this Friday slot booked for me for a while, Doc," he says finally. "I'm not fixed yet. Not by a long shot."

Dr. F lifts his eyebrows at that. "There's nothing wrong with you, Dean. You aren't broken."

Dean chuckles wryly. The hell he isn't. "I'm not? Then why am I here?"

"You're here because your life's been hard and you need some answers. You need some perspective. You need support. You're here because Sam loves you enough to blackmail you into being here. I hope I get to meet him someday."

"Yeah, you should meet him. Maybe after Christmas."

"I'd like that."

***

Christmas without Sam isn't that bad. Dean picks up some extra shifts on double overtime and he and Aaron watch _Die Hard_ on Christmas morning since the restaurant and the bar are both closed anyway. Aaron gives Dean a blow job and and a bottle of whiskey. Dean returns the favor and gives Aaron a mix CD—his favorite classic tracks.

Sam calls that evening after Aaron's gone home. They rarely spend the entire night at each others' places. There's a lot of noise in the background and Dean can hardly hear him. "…having a good time. Jess's cousins are all here and some of them are pretty cool. Her uncle's a criminal defense attorney so I've been asking him some questions."

"Sounds geeky," Dean says. "You get laid yet?"

He can hear Sam's bitch face through the phone. "Dean."

"Be good Sam. See you in a few days."

"Merry Christmas, Dean."

"Merry Christmas, Sam."

When Dean says he'll pick him up at the bus depot, Sam tells him Jess will drive him to the apartment. Dean's kind of looking forward to meeting the girl who's got Sam so worked up.

He makes sure he's down at the street level, tinkering unnecessarily with the Mustang when he estimates they'll be arriving. It's not long before a late-model cherry red Volkswagen Golf zips up the street and into the visitor spot of their building.

Sam looks like a giant unfolding himself from the compact car. Has he grown since Thanksgiving, or is Dean still not used to the fact his baby brother is a couple inches taller than him now? He forces himself to look away from Sam and to the girl.

She's average height, with that bouncy blonde hair chicks on TV are always trying to get from their conditioners and whatnot. She's got a California-girl tan, but a sprinkling of freckles across her nose to bring her down to earth. Light eyes. Straight, even white teeth. She looks like the hot girl-next-door in her Stanford t-shirt stretch tight across a nice rack, and well-fitting jeans. She's Stanford Barbie. Dean forces a smile onto his face.

"Well, well, look who the cat dragged in."

"Jessica, this is my brother, Dean. Dean, this is Jess."

Dean wipes his hand on his jeans conspicuously before offering it to Jessica to shake. She gives him a firm, confident shake that speaks of money and class.

"The infamous Dean. So nice to meet you," she says, her voice playful and pleasant.

Dean wants to hate her. He wants to be rude, send her back home to her mom and dad and her damn privileged life in Marin and tell her to keep her perfectly manicured hands away from his brother.

But he doesn't. Because, against every instinct in his body, he actually likes her. They go up to the apartment, and he makes sandwiches from some really excellent roast beef he'd made the day before. They eat and talk and Jessica is funny and self-deprecating and she and Sam have this kind of shorthand when they're talking about school that makes Dean feel both left out and proud of Sam for being able to keep with the all the rich kids he's at school with. He makes a mental note to try to put more in Sam's checking account every month so can maybe buy some clothes or take Jess out to dinner once in a while.

"These sandwiches are amazing. You made this? Sam said you were a chef, but wow, this is the best roast beef I've ever had."

"Made the horseradish, too. My own recipe." Dean says. He doesn't mind when people compliment his cooking. It's one of the only things he objectively knows he's good at, and he takes pride in it. "There's some leftover chocolate cream pie, too."

After everyone has pie, Jess says regretfully, "I wish I could stay longer, but my family and I are going out of town and I have to get home. It was really nice to meet you, Dean."

"Same." She's polite and says all the right things and she even gives Dean a light hug on the way out, which makes him only slightly uncomfortable, but she lets go before he has to make a decision about hugging her back. He tries to give her and Sam some privacy, but she just hugs Sam, a little harder, a little longer, then lets go.

"Drive safe, Jess," Sam says easily, not like he's already missing her or anything.

"I will."

Then she's gone. The apartment seems quiet without her bubbly presence, but Dean's happy to have the weight off his shoulders.

"So. That was Jess." Sam raises his eyebrows in silent invitation for Dean's reaction.

"She's nice, Sam. Pretty. Way too classy for you. You'd be an idiot not to marry her."

Sam cheeks redden. "Don't think we're at that stage quite yet, but I'm glad you like her. She's pretty great. And her family was really good to me."

"Good." Dean hadn't said anything, but he'd wondered how Sam would fare in a big, bustling house.

"Did you know the two of you have same birthday?"

"No shit." Dean's never met anyone with the same birthday as him before.

"Speaking of…I was thinking maybe we could go on a road trip before I go back to school. If you can get some time off."

"Yeah?" Dean perks up at the thought. "Where'd you have in mind?"

"Depends on if you want to go somewhere warm or cold. We could head south to Baja, sit by the beach. Or we could head north, do the Pacific Northwest. I've always wanted to go to Puget Island."

"Island? Can you drive there?"

"I think there's a ferry."

"Taking my baby on a boat? Not so sure about that."

"Mexico it is." Sam grabs his duffle and heads to the bedroom. "Dean? Where's my bed?"

"Oh, I forgot to tell you. Did some rearranging, but there are clean sheets on the bed, and I'm on the sofa bed. Pulls out into a queen."

"Oh." Sam's silent for a long minute. "You don't have to do that."

"Don't worry about it. You and your giant legs need the space."

"If you say so."

That night Dean's not technically uncomfortable on the pullout's thin mattress, but he still tosses and turns for an hour before falling asleep. He misses his memory foam, but he misses being in the same room as Sam more.

***

Aaron's chill when Dean tells him he and Sam are going to take off for the better part of a week. He has to tell Dr. F, too, because he'll miss his normal session.

"Don't worry about it, Dean. Go. Have fun with Sam."

"Thanks." Dean intends to do just that. He hasn't had this long off from the restaurant in a long time. They leave early morning before the traffic starts heating up in the Bay. They reach San Simeon by lunchtime and eat gas station sandwiches watching the elephant seals. Dean points out the zebra he spots in the grass by the side of the 1 just ahead of Hearst Castle. Sam falls asleep in Ventura and doesn't wake up until they're south of Los Angeles, heading toward San Diego. They cross the border after nightfall, and debate stopping, but instead Sam takes a turn at the wheel, and Dean catches a few z's. 

Dawn's breaking gray when he opens his eyes again, and they're driving through the little beach town Sam had scouted on the map before they left. They rent a cheap but clean room with two beds and spend the day kicking around in the surf, getting sunburned and seeing how many beers they can drink before five. That night, Dean sleeps better than he has in months with Sam on the narrow twin bed a few feet away.

"So, is she a good kisser?" Dean asks on their third night. They're going home tomorrow, and they're both four beers in after a carnitas feast at the local taqueria.

"Who, Jess?"

"No, Penelope Cruz."

"Um, yeah, she's a good kisser. She's very…soft."

Dean can imagine. She's soft and would fit tucked neatly against Sam's larger, harder body.

"You go all the way yet?" It's a sophomoric way of putting it, but Sam doesn't give him a hard time about it.

"We've talked about it. But not yet."

"So you're…" Dean likes to think Sam would have told him if he'd had sex with someone, and there were never any girls who he was that serious about in high school. But he doesn't know why he needs to know this about his little brother. "…still carrying your v-card?"

"Shut up," Sam says.

"I'm not making fun. I think it's nice that you waited for a cool girl like Jess."

"Really?"

Dean's just drunk enough to admit to himself there's a part of him that wouldn't really mind if Sam never popped his cherry, that he could stay Dean's Sam forever. He's also drunk enough to cover that thought up with "Sure. It's not like I can talk."

"What do you mean?"

"I hadn't exactly gotten a lot of action when I was your age."

"But you and Aaron have—"

"Yeah, 'course."

There's silence and Dean drains the last of his bottle.

"Is he a good kisser?" Sam asks quietly.

"Yeah." His mind flashes back to the first time they kissed, on the couch in Aaron's apartment.

"Even with the beard?"

"I like the beard."

"Isn't it scratchy?"

"In a good way, Sammy. In a good way." He waggles his eyebrows and Sam rolls his eyes and whatever weird tension that had been building in the room dissipates with their laughter.

That night, Dean dreams Sam's grown a beard, dark and close, and it makes him look older, frames his pretty smile, and in the dream Sam says, "Touch it, it's okay, Dean. I know you want to." When Dean moves to run his fingers over his brother's face, Sam dissolves into ashes and Dean's left alone.


	9. Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam doesn't come home for summer break, and Dean and Aaron celebrate Aaron's birthday.

Saying goodbye to Sam at the end of winter break isn't as bad as it was back in August, or even Thanksgiving. He's getting better, Dean thinks. He's  
adjusting. He's not a freak who needs his brother within five feet of him at all times.

Things are busy at The Bistro. The pastry chef quits on short notice and Dean volunteers to bridge the gap until they find someone new. It means coming in early, throwing together the signature molten chocolate lava cakes and the creme brûlées, but they have a bushel of Meyer lemons and he does a lemon meringue tart as a special. They sell out every night for a week.

Things between him and Aaron are good, hanging out, fooling around, once in a while spending the night. He's even hung out with Benny a few times just the two of them, expanding his friend circle. Not Bela, though, she's too high-maintenance for him. But Benny's cool.

Dr. F encourages him to make friends outside the restaurant, especially queer friends. Dean's just about gotten used to hearing the word queer as positive, not as a slur. He shows up at Dr. F's every week, rain or shine as they say. Sometimes talk about little shit, Dean venting about the inept new line cook or how Sam's always forgetting to charge his cell phone. Sometimes Dr. F gets him to talk about when he and Sam were kids, tough stuff about how it was always trying to anticipate John. If he could tell what John was going to do, Dean could try to make it better for Sam. But Dean never talks about That Night and it doesn't come up.

Before he realizes it, spring's almost over and Sam's summer break is coming. He's been unsuccessfully looking for a summer job in Petaluma and then Jess's uncle offers him an internship at his law firm in San Francisco. Jess is working as a museum docent at the science center. They two of them can live together. Sam promises to come home as many weekends as he can. 

Dean's bummed. He'd been looking forward to having Sam home for more than a few days at a time, but he's also not surprised. This has been coming since he first dropped Sam off at school. This slow but inevitable pulling away. Sam's not his possession, he's not a doll that Dean can play with whenever he wants to. Sam's grown, and he's going to just keep getting further and further away from Dean. It hurts, but that's the way it's supposed to be.

"Living together, huh? You two ready for that?"

"It's just for the summer," Sam says. "It'll make living in the city way more affordable."

Sam's right, and Dean can hear the excitement in his voice. Sam wants this. He wants normal and Jess and the future that becoming a lawyer can make possible. And Dean wants what's going to make Sam happy.

"I guess this means you'll be getting a one-bedroom? You better stock up on condoms. No little Winchesters for a while yet, you hear?"

Sam doesn't respond right away. "You said Winchesters," he says finally.

"So?"

"Are we still Winchesters?" He doesn't sound bitter, just curious.

"We'll always be Winchesters, Sam," Dean says. It's a good thing and a bad thing. He clears his throat. "But you know what I mean. Safe sex."

"Yeah, yeah. Jesus, I'm not an idiot. Jess is on the pill, anyway."

"Oh." Well, that answers that. Sam's virginity is a thing of the past. Dean swallows hard.

"I'll let you know when I can come up. okay?"

"Bring Jess if you want," Dean says, because he thinks Sam will appreciate it, not because he really wants to share his brother with his brother's girlfriend.

"Thanks. Maybe I will."

The summer isn't that different, then, from the rest of the year with Sam gone, except that Dean feels itchy. Sometimes he goes to Denim to drink on nights when Aaron's working because he doesn't have anything else to do and he doesn't want to hang out in his empty apartment. 

He gets blackout drunk at the 4th of July party Aaron's friend Nick throws on the roof of his apartment building. Sam hadn't been able to get away from the city for the holiday. Dean suspected that Jess's family was having some party and Sam just wanted to go there instead of come home to drink cheap beer and set off firecrackers with his loser big brother. 

He crashes at Aaron's that night, waking up with the worst hangover of his life. Aaron takes care of him uncomplainingly, but he suggests that Dean not celebrate the birthday of their nation quite so hard next year. As an apology, when Dean's feeling better he makes Aaron a coconut cream pie, his favorite, and brings along some Lactaid because he's just the tiniest bit lactose intolerant.

Aaron's birthday is in August. Dean realizes when he's trying to figure out something to get him that they've been hooking up, or together, or whatever you want to call it, for almost a year. He wonders, sometimes, if Aaron's content with the way things are—casual and friendly. They don't even call each other their boyfriend. Dean's fallen into this pattern as easily as he fell into celibacy. Maybe they should shake things up? Dean's just not sure what he wants—more of Aaron? Less?

Aaron brings it up first. "You know what I want for my birthday?" Aaron asks, right after Dean's just come inside him. "To top you."

"Oh." Dean's post-orgasmic high dissipates instantly. "Can I think about that?"

"'Course," Aaron says easily. He's always so easy. "I just think you would really like it. It feels amazing."

Dean shivers. It's not that he hasn't thought about it. Or that he doesn't want it. Aaron's touched him there, carefully, usually when Dean's cock is down his throat and Dean always comes harder that way. It's not that it doesn't feel good. He knows it would feel good. It's just the idea of having Aaron inside him that way makes him feel kind of shaky, sends his breathing a little shallow.

It's stupid, because That Night those guys used his mouth, too, and he doesn't have a problem giving Aaron blowjobs. Though he does always need to be able to set the pace, doesn't like it if Aaron tries to position his head or hold him too hard. He can't do it if he doesn't have control.

He doesn't need Dr. F to figure out why that is.

He could just try it, and if he freaks out, they can stop. He is 100% certain that Aaron would stop if he wanted him to, anytime, ever. But the more he thinks about it, the more uncomfortable he feels.

Aaron's birthday arrives and Dean's made a decision. He dresses up, books a table at a nice restaurant a few steps up from the places they usually go, nicer than The Bistro, even.

"You went all out," Aaron says, looking around the place a little nervously.

"It's your birthday. We always go to the same four places."

"You really didn't have to."

Dean suddenly wishes he'd stuck to one of their regular haunts, but he squares his shoulders. It's just dinner. The place has a decent draft options, anyway, so they order beer and a couple of appetizers.

"You look good," Aaron says softly. It sounds like an apology, but Dean's not sure for what.

"Thanks. You, too." Aaron always looks approachable and understated in button downs and jeans. His hair's grown out a little on top, still nowhere near as long as Sam's the last time Dean saw him, but kind of wavy and cute. They munch on a really great flatbread appetizer thing and Dean tries to figure out how to say what he wants. He should have practiced with Dr. F, maybe, because with Aaron sitting across from him, he can't seem to find the words. "So, um. We've been uh, hanging out for almost a year."

"Huh, wow." Aaron smiles. "It's been a great year, Dean. I'm really glad I met you."

Dean smiles back. "Me too." He hesitates, feeling like this might be too much before the steaks they have coming, but forges ahead anyway. "I know I'm not the most communicative guy, but I want you to know that being with you has been a really good thing for me. You don't even know how much. I guess I just wanted to say thanks."

Aaron's smile dims. "Oh. Well, thanks man. No problem."

"And it's your birthday, and we're always so casual, but I thought maybe we should talk about getting more serious? Like, I don't know if—" 

He's about to say that maybe they should be exclusive, even though Dean already is, and he doesn't know that Aaron hasn't been, but Aaron breaks in. "You know, Dean, we're really good friends, and the sex is awesome, but you don't need to feel like I want something from you that you can't give. Like, romantically, or anything."

"Oh."

"I love being with you. When I show your picture to my college friends they don't believe me that I didn't just cut you out of an underwear catalog or something. But it's not like we're falling in love. Right?" Aaron's not being mean, his tone is matter-of-fact.

"Yeah, I guess." Dean only has one person in his life he knows he loves. Sam. He doesn't know what love feels like except in relation to his brother. 

He looks at Aaron, sweet, sexy, honest. He does love him, like a friend. He loves the way it feels when they're getting each other off. He loves having someone to go to bingo night with and to save leftovers at the restaurant for. He used to be able to do that for Sam, but Sam's living in a one-bedroom walk up in the Haight with Miss California.

Aaron smiles ruefully. "We're not headed in that direction—and that's cool with me, really. I never counted on that from you. And believe me, with my parents' divorce and all my own shit, I'm not exactly looking for that, either. That's why we work so well."

It's weird. He and Aaron are on the same page, but he can't help but feel rejected, somehow. He'd wanted this night to be romantic, maybe a step in a new direction for them, but it turns out Aaron's expectation are even lower than his.

But maybe that's good. It's like Aaron said, what they have works. Uncomplicated sex, someone to have a good time with—what else could Dean possibly want? He shakes away the sensation of something being off, and raises his pint glass for Aaron to clink. "You're right, man. Why mess a good thing."

After the steaks, more beer, and a fancy apple crisp that has nothing on the one Dean makes, Dean's back in his comfort zone. He's not too buzzed to drive, but Aaron's definitely tipsy, leaning across the gearshift to nuzzle Dean's throat, his beard scratchy-soft against Dean's skin. Dean's half hard; he steps on the accelerator.

When they get inside Aaron's bedroom, Aaron kisses Dean breathless. He goes for Dean's belt, but Dean puts a hand out to stop him. "I was going to bring this up before, but I can't bottom tonight. It's not that I don't want to, but I just can't."

"It's okay." Aaron flops back on the bed, spreads his legs. "How about you rim me to make it up to me?"

"That, I can do," Dean says. They don't do it very often but it always leaves both of them panting, turned-on messes. Much later, he falls asleep in Aaron's bed, but there's space between them. Dean's wonders if after tonight that space is only going to get bigger.

***

Sam comes home for a few days before his sophomore year starts. He refuses to let Dean give up his room this time, stakes out the sofa bed no matter how many times Dean tries. Sam look healthy and tan, speaking of weekends under the sun at Jess's parents' beach house. 

Dean's hungry for the sight of him after most of the summer apart. He wonders how weird it would be to take a few pictures that he could have to look at through the long days and weeks and months that Sam's away. Too weird, he decides regretfully.

They're literally less than a hundred miles from each other, but Stanford might as well be a different country. Dean never feels comfortable coming into Sam's college-boy world; he only visited a couple of times over the past year. Sam's always a little stiff when Dean's there, a little bit on edge, as if Dean's going to do something to upset his carefully constructed normal world, or at least that's what it feels like.

Whatever. Sam's here now and it's good. They stay up late watching movies, take a drive up the coast and spend an afternoon at the beach, Dean's fair skin turning red by the end of the afternoon. He makes Sam buy some new clothes and tries out a new recipe for something called marmalade pie that Sam can't get enough of. Even though he won't take Dean's bed from him, he doesn't complain about the sofa bed mattress, making the bed tidily every day.

Dean wakes up early the day Sam's heading back. His bags are already packed; Jess is picking him up after lunch. Dean stands in the doorway between the bedroom and the living room and looks at his brother, sprawled out on the sofa bed, his floppy hair covering his face, which is tucked into the crook of his arm, the plain gray t-shirt riding up Sam's bicep, leaving bare an elegant sweep of skin. The rest of him is hidden underneath the light blue sheets, but he's so long his feet stick off the end, bony ankles dusted with a few dark hairs.

Dean marvels again at the fact that the baby his mother thrust into his arms all those years ago has grown into someone so big and beautiful. He's fed Sam, clothed him, made sure he did his homework and signed his field trip permission slips and taught him to drive and…he loves him with as much ferocity as a mama bear and as much pride as any father. Sam's his heart, walking around outside his body.

Sam's leaving him again and taking his heart with him. Dean sighs and looks away.


	10. Pie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam makes plans, Dean finds a dream.

Dean doesn't go down to Stanford all fall semester, and Sam doesn't make it home again until Christmas. Once Sam's home, Dean figures Sam will be able to let down, relax after finals, but there's a tension there. It's not between them exactly, it's just the walls of the apartment seem to be closing in on them. Sam's college friends or Jess always seem to be calling his cell, and he always picks up, no matter what he and Dean are doing. He's only on the sofa bad for a week before going back to school early to do some work for his favorite professor. No time for a road trip this year.

Aaron was at his mom's down south for Hanukkah, so Dean didn't even have the outlet of going to his place. Things between the two of them have been fine, the same, hanging out, having sex. Dean's almost positive that Aaron sees other guys once in a while, even though they agreed to be upfront about that way back when. But he doesn't ask.

Sam calls on Dean's birthday as Dean's getting ready to meet up with Aaron and Benny and a few other friends.

"Hey Dean."

His tone, nervous and high, puts Dean on edge.

"What's up?" Dean says bluntly. He doesn't feel like playing today. His birthday reminds him of the anniversary of leaving John. Eight years ago now. Puts him on edge, wondering what might have happened if he hadn't hustled Sammy out of that door, out of that life. 

"I wanted to let you know I'm applying for some study abroad programs for next year."

"What does that mean?"

"I might study for a year at a university in Europe, maybe Australia. Depends on where I get in."

Dean absorbs that. Sam going even farther away. Farther than Dean would be able get to him by car. Neither one of them have even been on an airplane before. Dean pictures Sam, on his own, in a foreign country. A million and one things could go wrong. A million and one more ways Dean could feel alone. "Is that a good idea, for your major?" he asks, instead of shouting and telling Sam in no uncertain terms he is not studying abroad.

"It's fine. I'm ahead on credits, and I'm applying for programs that will have some carryover with my courses here. Jess—"

"This is because Jess is going, isn't it? You applying to the same programs because you can't be away from your girl for four months?"

"This isn't about Jess." Sam sounds more put out now than tentative. "I want to see something of the world, and this is a cheap way to do it. My scholarship money transfers. I just wanted you to give a heads up."

"Yeah, sure. Thanks." Dean looks at his watch, realizes he's going to be late. His heart's somewhere near his feet. "Listen, I gotta go. Good talk."

"Wait."

"Yeah?"

"Happy birthday, jerk."

Dean heart jackknifes in the opposite direction. "Thanks, bitch."

***

When Sam calls a couple months later to say he's going to Rome for a year, Dean congratulates him, then gets so drunk he stands Aaron up at a concert they were supposed to see together, and shows up to work the next day so hungover his boss sends him home with a gallon of orange juice and a stern warning that if it ever happened again, he was fired, no matter how good his lemon meringue tarts. He spends Friday's session with Dr. F holding back tears.

"I just feel like he's trying to get as far away from me as possible, which is stupid, because I know this isn't really about me, and I'm should be pushing him to do this kind of stuff. It's just really hard. I'm not going to see him for…" Dean wipes his eyes, even though they're still dry. "Ten months? That's a really long time."

"You could go visit him," Dr. F says. "Sam's taking this opportunity to broaden his horizons. Maybe you should take the opportunity to broaden yours."

"Me go to Rome?" Dean white knuckles the arms of the regular therapy chair just thinking about flying halfway around the world. Just because he's never flown before doesn't mean he's eager to strap himself to a hunk of metal that could drop from the sky at a moment's notice. "I don't think, so, Doc."

"Sam's stretching his wings. It's normal for you to be upset about being separated from him, but this is just the next step in the two of you being independent. We've talked about codependency before. Your happiness can't always revolve around Sam's happiness."

"Well right now, Sam's happiness is making me feel like shit," Dean snaps.

"The one time I met Sam, I could tell that he cares about you just as much as you care about him. It's rare for two brothers to be so in tune with one another, to put the other's emotional needs ahead of their own time after time. He's not doing this to hurt you, and I don't believe you truly want to stop him. I really think a positive outcome of this would be you thinking about your own life, your own goals. What's your version of Rome? What about your career, your living situation? Your relationships? Are there things you'd like to change or make better?"

"Sounds like more homework, Doc."

"Let's talk next week about something you'd like to do for yourself. Leave Sam out of the equation."

Dean's not sure he's capable of that, but he'll try. He spends the week thinking about his life. He may be in a little bit of a rut. He's had the same job for more than five years. It pays well enough and has decent benefits. But he's kind of phoning it in, and he knows it. He could jump ship to another kitchen, but who knows if he'd like the people as much as the folks he works with The Bistro. His relationship with Aaron is similarly familiar. Since Aaron's birthday, neither of them have tried to make it more than what it is. They don't spend more than a night or two a week together anymore. He supposes that's something he should examine. He just really doesn't want to.

Friday morning, therapy morning, he oversleeps, having stayed up late the night before worried about failing his homework assignment for Dr. F. He runs out of his apartment without breakfast, stopping at a little doughnut shop in a strip mall on the way. It's all mediocre coffee and stale doughnuts not even baked on site but trucked in from central warehouse hours away. The kind of place that probably makes more on lotto tickets sales than doughnuts. He looks around the generic little shop, imagines his baking sitting in the cases instead of fluorescent-lit doughnuts. Pies have always been his favorite. He wonders how much rent costs in a place like this, how many pies he'd have to sell. He thinks about how sometimes he bakes for the restaurant; he could even try to get some wholesale clients.

And then he realizes that having his own little pie shop is a pipe dream. He'd never be able to scrape up enough capital to have his own business. He'd never be able to support himself, let alone employees, or Sam, if he had to rely on foot traffic for income. He's an idiot for even thinking about it.

He sits down heavily in the chair in Dr. F's office as if a fifty pound sack of flour is laid across his shoulders.

"What's got you down, Dean?"

"My homework assignment. It's fucked."

"Tell me about it."

"I just…you asked me what I'd like to do for me and apparently I have no idea. My life's been about Sam since I was four years old. It's been about surviving. I don't know how to do anything else."

"Close your eyes, Dean."

"What?"

Dr. F stares with his bushy white eyebrows lifted, waiting for Dean to just close his damn eyes already.

Dean huffs and closes his eyes.

"You wake up in the morning. It's a sunny day. There's coffee and food on the table. Sam's safe. He's taken care of. You have the whole day stretched out in front of you. Where do you go? What do you do?"

"Give the Mustang a wash?" Dean does this every week.

"The Mustang is in perfect condition. Clean as a whistle. Nothing to do there."

"Um." In his mind's eye, Dean pictures the doughnut shop again, but made over from California strip mall chic into something quaint, inviting. There was this cafe he remembers from one of the towns they'd settled in long enough for them to enroll in school. It had wooden tables and the air always smelled like cinnamon. It was way fancier than the diners they usually ate at, but it was just down the street from the apartment they were—looking back now, probably squatting in—and John would stop and get coffee there from time to time. One of the workers, this older woman with dark brown eyes, would slip him and Sam something, since it would never occur to John to spend good money on something like a pastry, flaky and warm right out of the oven. Dean doesn't remember exactly what kind of things they sold there, he just remembers the feeling of being somewhere warm and cozy, somewhere that smelled good. He remembers how a bit of flour and sugar mixed with the woman's kindness made his stomach feel funny, almost like he was going to cry. Then John would hustle them to school where Dean had to pretend he didn't care about what they were studying because he was a couple grades behind where he should be and he was too busy constantly watching out for anyone bothering scrawny-for-his-age Sam to catch up.

"I was thinking," Dean starts off slow, haltingly, as if he has to dredge each word up from someplace that's hard to reach. "About opening a little shop? I like working at the restaurant, but it's not really mine. And I'm a good sous chef, but I really love making pie."

He keeps his eyes closed, and the words start to come faster. "Petaluma doesn't have a lot of bakeries. There's that French place downtown, but they don't sell pie. I could get a storefront, see if I could get some wholesale clients, restaurants and stuff. I wouldn't need many employees, maybe a couple of bakers, couple of front of house staff. We'd have all the usual suspects of course: apple, chocolate cream, lemon meringue, seasonal fruits. But I could experiment, do a few specials every week. I've been working on a chocolate bourbon pecan pie that is almost perfect. Not too sweet, not too rich."

Dean opens his eyes. He's still in Dr. F's office, not some hypothetical bakery kitchen where he could play with flour and flavors all day long. "Pretty stupid, huh?"

"Dean Winchester." Dr. F uses his old name, his real name, sometimes when he really wants to get through to him. Dean instinctively straightens his posture. "You aced another homework assignment."

"I did?"

"You were able to communicate to me—vividly, I'd sell my house for a slice of that chocolate bourbon pecan pie—a dream of yours that doesn't involve your car, or your brother. That's amazing."

"Yeah, but it's just a dream. A fantasy. I could never actually pull that off."

"Why not? Everything seems impossible until it's done. You've accomplished some monumental things in your life. Don't sell yourself short."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "Seriously? You think I could…" His tone is blustery, challenging, but it fades away when he realizes how much he wants this. How much fun it would be. How satisfying to go to work every day and be working for himself, calling all the shots. And how terrifying it would be to have nothing to fall back on, to know that if he fails, it's because he wasn't good enough, that he couldn't make it work. The warring emotions make him a little sick.

"I think you shouldn't shut down this idea before you give it a chance. I'm not saying you should go take out a loan and open your shop next week. But if this is something you could truly see yourself doing—and I certainly can, for what it's worth—then you can take some small steps. The Small Business Administration has classes on writing business plans, they can help you figure out if your idea could actually be profitable. Start with some research."

"Research? That's Sam's area, not mine. I'm more of a man of action."

"You could ask Sam for help," Dr. F says, "but I think you need to do this for yourself."

Dean imagines telling Sam he wants to open a pie shop. Sam would probably be enthusiastic and supportive at first and then so carefully consoling when it inevitably didn't work out. Dean doesn't want Sam's pity. If he's going to do this, he has to make sure it's going to work.

"So, homework for next week," Dr. F says briskly, standing up to indicate the end of their session. "Do one piece of research about what it would take to open a small business here in town. And bring me some pie for extra credit."

Dean grins. "I didn't know you like pie, Doc."

"I'm a big pie fan, but my wife is the world's second worst baker. I'm the actual worst. I try making cookies once and they come out like hockey pucks. Pie is way above our pay grade. We usually just pick up whatever's at the supermarket."

"Mass produced, gelatinous, flavorless pie." Dean shudders. "Just wait, Doc. I got you."


	11. Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam goes to Rome. Dean has a bad night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning--assault/attempted assault in this chapter.

By the time Sam leaves for Rome a few months later, Dean's taken two business classes through the SBA and refined twenty pie recipes with Dr. F's help. Dr. F's put on five pounds. Dean veers between giddy and terrified. But he has to say, he hasn't been as hung up on Sam leaving as he might have been if he'd had nothing to do but brood.

Sam asks Dean to bring him to the airport, so Dean gets half a day off work, loads Sam's suitcase into the back of the Mustang and they drive to San Jose. Dean hasn't told Sam of his plans—they're not even really plans at this point, just ideas, a few pages of market research, a few real estate listings he's had his eye on. But he's whistling, thinking about adding some kind of 'smores inspired pie to his repertoire. He might need to invest in a blow torch. That would be cool. And according to his teacher, he can write off equipment and supplies on his taxes. Sweet.

"What's with you?" Sam asks when they're about thirty miles away.

"Huh?"

"You've been whistling Led Zeppelin for twenty minutes."

"So?"

"So. You seem happy, that's all."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"No." He looks out the window, Dean changes lanes. "You are Aaron doing good?"

"Oh yeah, sure," he says, though the truth is, they haven't been hanging out as much as they used to. It's become more of a friends-with-benefits situation, hooking up once a week, maybe once every two weeks. Dean knows he's been distracted by this pie shop thing, and Aaron doesn't seem to care if Dean only calls him when he's horny, since he does the same thing.

"What about you and Jess? You got plans to meet up in Paris or something romantic-like?" Jessica's going to London for the semester.

"Actually, we decided to break up."

Dean's so shocked he actually twists the steering wheel when he turns to look at Sam, veering dangerously into the next lane. An SUV honks and Dean rights the car, slowing down and sputtering. "What the hell? Are you serious? When were you going to tell me?"

"I just did," Sam says calmly. "We talked about it a bunch, and we decided since we're not going to be in the same place for at least year that we shouldn't try to do long distance. It wouldn't make sense. When we're both back at Stanford, if we want to get back together, we can decide that then."

Dean wants to pull over, he wants to shake his brother, to ask why he's only now hearing about this, why Sam hadn't told him. He needs to look him in the eyes and make sure he's really okay with it. He sounds so casual, as if breaking up with his first love happens every day and he's totally cool with it. But Dean knows Sam keeps way more inside than on his sleeve.

"Jesus, Sam. You sure you're going to be okay? You're going to be so far away, and I…you know I'll come if you need me, just say the word, but it's not exactly around the corner and—"

"It's okay, Dean. I won't call you to come get me in Rome, like it's some bad party I need a ride home from. I'm twenty-one, not sixteen."

"I didn't mean it like that." Dean chews on the inside of his lip, thinking. "So you'll be single and ready to mingle. Probably for the best. Just don't knock up any Italian chicks."

Sam snorts. "You're obsessed with me knocking someone up."

"That's because I'm too young to be a grandpa," Dean says without thinking.

"Jesus Christ." Sam's reaction is hard to read—a choked laugh, a weird thin mouth.

"Just kidding," Dean says hastily. It's not like he thinks of himself as Sam's dad. He doesn't. They're brothers. He clears his throat. "You call me when you get there."

"Yeah." Sam still seems weirded out. They pull up to the curb in front of the terminal.

"I could park, walk you in."

"No, it's okay."

It hits Dean then that he's not going to see Sam for a while—this will be the longest they've ever been apart. The gaps between visits have gotten longer and longer, but Dean doesn't exactly like it. He'll never get used to not having Sam's breathing to comfort him at night. 

He gets out of the car to mask his sudden onslaught of emotion. Sam doesn't need him breaking down right before his big trip. He pulls Sam in for a rough hug, though. He can have that much. "Be good, Sam."

"You too, Dean."

***

Dean's okay for about three weeks. Three weeks when he can pretend that Sam's just down the road at Stanford, not thousands of miles away. Sam calls every Sunday. He likes the city, his Italian, which he only started learning earlier that summer, is coming along now that he's forced to use it. The Latin he took in high school helps a lot, actually. And he's made a couple of friends.

"Gabriel, he's actually my American advisor, but he's lived here for a year so he knows everything. He's kind of a dick, but funny. And Tamara, she's in a couple of my classes. Everyone's chill."

"That's great, Sammy. You heard from Jess?" He's not sure if Sam wants to talk about her or not, but he's curious.

"Yeah, she's good. She got into the classes she wanted, so she's happy."

"All right. Doing anything fun tonight?"

"Gabriel's taking me to some club he says doesn't suck."

"Clubbing in Europe. Never thought I'd see the day, Sammy. That fancy school was a big mistake."

"Shut up. I'm not about to start gelling my hair, like some people I know."

"Hey, my hair is naturally gorgeous."

"Whatever. How's Aaron?"

"Hmm? Fine. I gotta run, Baby needs a wash."

"Later, jerk."

Dean closes his phone and sighs. Sam's out there, living his life. Despite his attempts at tentatively making a plan to make his stupid pie store idea a reality, he's really nowhere until he can work up the courage to actually take on debt to make it happen. There's no way he can save up enough to avoid that. And Sam asking about Aaron makes Dean realize he hasn't actually talked to him in a few days. He flips open the phone again, calls him. No answer. But it's Sunday. Bingo night. He'll meet up with him at Denim.

The place is super crowded when Dean arrives dressed in dark jeans and his leather jacket. He doesn't spot Bela or Benny or any of the other friends he's met through Aaron, but after a couple of years he's considered a regular, even if he usually doesn't come alone. He gets himself a bingo card and a drink.

He considers joining a table, but in the end, sits at the edge of the bar, next to the empty dance floor. No one starts dancing until the bingo game's over, so Dean's notices a couple out of place in the far corner. They're making out. Dean averts his eyes, takes a sip of his beer, then swivels back as his brain makes a connection. The guy backed up against the wall—he can't really see him, covered as he is by a bigger guy wearing jeans and cowboy boots, but he does recognize the other guy's hands, stuck into Cowboy Boots' back pockets. It's Aaron.

Dean looks away again, contemplating his options. He could take off, pretend he hadn't seen. He could confront them. But what's the point? Aaron had always kept that door open, and Dean had stuck his head in the sand about what it meant. He doesn't begrudge Aaron living his life. It's not like Dean's such a great bargain. His stomach plummets though, when he acknowledges to himself what's really bothering him, that he's known on some level that he should've broken things off a while ago. But then he'd have to face the fact that he's alone, again. 

It's a theme. Sam's gone. Most of his friends he's made though Aaron. He's twenty-five, and he's only slept with one person. In another life, he might have been the kind of guy who flirted and charmed and could have anybody he wanted. He wishes like hell he was that guy right now. If he was that guy, he'd take a shot, go up to the hottest man in the room and before the end of the night he'd be forgetting himself in the pleasure of having no-strings-attached sex with someone who revs his engine.

The thought of doing that, of giving up enough control to go to a stranger's place or having a stranger in his apartment—he just can't. He had too many years raised by a paranoid loner followed by too many years of being suspicious of anybody who might come between him and Sam, who might take his focus off Sam long enough for something bad to happen to him.

_Sam's fine_. He's out, living his life, with Gabriel and Tamara and all the other beautiful, smart, better-than-Dean people he's surrounded himself with. Maybe he's even getting his dick sucked by some hot Italian girl in the bathroom at the club. Dean can picture it, his tall, adorable brother dancing with surprising fluidity for someone who's mostly arms and legs, smiling with his pointy, white teeth under the lights of the dance floor, attracting girls like a flower attracts a honeybee. All those girls want to rub up against Sam, feeling his long, lean muscles, hoping he'll wrap those big, capable hands around their waists, holding them close, choosing them. Allowing them to give him pleasure.

Dean's vision blurs as he realizes three things at once. One, he hates those fucking random club girls that want a piece of his brother with a startling intensity. Two, he's half hard and feeling buzzed even though he's only downed half his beer. Three, Cowboy Boots is walking past him to the front of the house and the bingo action. Dean meets his eye, nods, jaw tight. Boots nods back, ambles on. Dean turns on his stool. Aaron's there, hovering a few feet away, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, eyes wide.

"You saw?"

"I saw," Dean says. "But it's fine, right? You always said—" He can't finish the sentence.

"I know. But I didn't mean for you to have to see anything."

"It's okay. It's fine. I'm fine."

"Dean, if you say fine one more time—"

"I don't think we should hang out for a while." Dean didn't know he was going to say it, but it feels right.

Aaron bites his lip. He nods. "Okay." He walks close, so that he can put his hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean has to stop himself from shrugging him off. "Dean, you know I care about you. We've had some fun these last couple of years. But I think this is for the best. There's more out there for you."

Dean stays quiet. He doesn't want to say something that will mean they can't be friends when he gets over whatever this is.

"I'll see you around," Aaron says, squeezing Dean's shoulder and disappearing into the crowd.

Dean sits frozen for a long moment, then he drains the rest of his beer in two gulps. Why does everyone else think they know what Dean needs. What he wants? Why do they always think he should be doing something else, something better, something more? He's just a high school dropout with a stupid dream. The only good thing about his life is Sam, and Sam's too good for Dean anyway.

He has the urge to get blindingly drunk. Maybe then he'd forget that he's basically alone, that no one wants him, no one loves him. Sam doesn't count. Sam's his brother. He has to love him. And he'll never love Dean the way— _as much_ —as Dean loves him.

He shoves back from the bar, leaving behind his bingo card and a tip. The bartenders here know him too well to let him get the kind of drunk he's set on. It'll be quicker and cheaper to just pick up a bottle of something from the liquor store on the way home. He's a block away from his destination when he passes a dive bar he's been to a couple times. There's a parking spot out front, and Dean calls it fate. He'll be better off drowning his sorrows with a few shots instead of drinking a whole bottle.

Inside, the place is smaller than he remembered, but it's still fairly early and a Sunday to boot, so he's got a whole section of the bar to himself. He orders a whiskey and a beer chaser to cover his bases, looks around. It's a mix of professional drunks and broke college students. One of the younger patrons, a big guy, even taller than Dean, and broad, like a beefy Ben Affleck-type, gives him a half salute from a table he's sharing with three other bros. Dean nods back, suddenly not sure this was such a good idea. _Of course it's not a good idea._ That's why he's doing it.

By the end of his second shot and third beer, he's feeling more, not less. He feels the distance between him and Sam, every mile a painful pinprick upon his skin. He feels the loss of Aaron, a security blanket he's been clinging to and will have to learn how to be without. He feels the alcohol course through his system, making him loose but slow.

The bartender sets down a third shot. When Dean points out he didn't order it, the sallow-faced guy on the other side of the bar shrugs. "He did." Without turning around, Dean knows the Ben Affleck guy bought him a drink. He's flattered. Maybe being single and gay in a town of 50,000 people isn't a chastity sentence. Maybe he was wrong about his ability to engage in casual sex. This dive isn't even a gay bar, and he's already pulling. He must be some kind of magnet.

Dean grins in Ben's direction and raises his glass. The guy's next to him inside of ten seconds, introducing himself as Brett. Dean grins. Close enough.

"I've seen you at Denim, but not here," Brett says.

So Dean's not a guy-magnet, Brett already knows he's a safe bet. Whatever. "Yeah. I needed a change of scene."

"I hear that. You live around here?"

"Not far. You?"

"Yeah, got some roommates. We're all truckers, so we cycle in and out. That your Mustang out front?"

They talk cars for a while. Chevy versus Ford and muscle versus truck. Brett's doing a bang-up job of distracting Dean from the shitshow that is his life at the moment, and he's doing a bang-up job of getting into Dean's personal space. He smells like beer and body spray, and the gleam in his eyes makes it seem like he'd drop to his knees and suck Dean off right then and there if he asked him to. 

They finish their beers and it's Dean's turn to buy the round. He orders, then slides off his stool. "Be right back," he says, edging toward the bathroom. He's gotta piss and get some space. 

Is he really going to go through with this? Hook up with a strange guy after one drink? He knows it's literally done every single second of every day. He thinks about it, then realizes his hands are shaking. Maybe he's not ready. 

He's zipped up and washing his hands, calmer already now that he's decided to just take off, when the door opens and Brett appears.

"Hey, man." Dean's about to make his apologies and get the fuck out of there, but Brett's suddenly on him, backing him against the sink, one hand covering Dean's crotch, the other clamping around his waist, hard, as he latches his mouth on Dean's throat.

"Hey." Dean shoves him, but the guy's got probably two inches and thirty pounds on him, and he apparently thinks grinding Dean against the dirty porcelain sink is some kind of foreplay, because he just presses Dean harder against it. Dean struggles to get enough air into his lungs to react. "Stop."

Brett pulls his mouth off Dean's neck long enough to say, "Shut up, baby. I know you want it."

Dean's suddenly in a different place, a filthy motel room with hands much bigger than his peeling the clothes from his body. _We know you want it._ He's drowning. Dying. Helpless to stop them from touching. Taking. He can't breathe. He's dizzy, spots flashing in front of his eyes. He goes limp.

When he opens his eyes, he's on the floor of the bathroom. The bartender peers down at him skeptically. "Time to go, buddy."

Dean sits up, fighting against a wave of nausea. "Yeah, yeah." He takes inventory. His head doesn't hurt. He doesn't think he hit it on the way down. He'd probably just fainted onto Brett who'd let him down, then taken off. His fly is half unzipped, but other than that, no damage done. Dean gets to his feet heavily, revises his estimate of the damage when he catches sight of himself in the mirror. He's got a hickey forming red and angry on the side of his neck. He feels disgusting, and if the bartender wasn't still staring at him like he's a cockroach he'd grind under his heel if he could, Dean would be emptying the contents of his stomach right then and there.

Instead, he shoves past the bartender, not bothering to pay his tab. Brett and his cronies are gone. It takes him two tries to start up the Mustang, but he manages the drive home, unwilling to endure a DUI on top of being attacked and dumped all in one night.

Fuck.

He sits for a long time in the car once he shuts off the engine. He has to pull himself together. He needs a shower and a glass of water and a painkiller and to wake up a different person.

He doesn't even realize he's crying until the tears dripping off his chin soak into a spot on the leg of his jeans. He reaches for his cell phone. It's going on midnight, but Dr. F said he could use this number anytime. He could call Sam, but he can't figure out what time it is over there. He might already have left for classes for the day. He finds the number with shaky fingers.

Dr. F picks up on the fourth ring. "Hello?"

"It's Dean. Sorry for calling so late."

"Dean? What's wrong?"

"I can't—I can't talk about it right now. Can I come in the morning? It's not my day, but—"

"Of course." There's a brief pause. "Eight too early?"

"No, I can be there." Dean feels a little bit better just hearing the doc's familiar, soothing voice. "Thanks, Doc."

"Where are you, Dean?"

"Home. I mean, I'm in my car."

"Do you need me to come over?"

Dean knows what he means.

"No. I'm going inside now."

"You do that. Go inside, get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning."

"Okay."

"If you need to, call me back."

"No, I'll be okay." Dean's not suicidal. He's just…broken, no matter what Dr. F says.

"You'll be okay," Dr. F agrees. "Eight o'clock."

Dean drags himself inside, takes the hottest shower he can stand. He inspects the bruise on his neck. Fucker. He looks like he went a round with a vampire. Nothing he owns can cover that up. His chef's whites have a high collar, he'll just have to hope that'll be enough at work tomorrow night.

He sleeps like shit, wakes up early. The only silver lining is he can bring Dr. F some of his most recent creation—cranberry raspberry pie with a crumble topping. He brings enough for two, and two forks, and shows up at the office at eight on the dot. Dr. F's already there.

"I brought breakfast," Dean announces and shows him the pie. 

Dr. F lights up, but he says, "Talk first, then pie."

"Such a stickler," Dean grumps. He actually feels a lot better this morning. He's barely hung over and this office is a place he feels calm. "Sorry about last night. I guess I could have waited until the morning."

"I'm glad you called. Tell me what you did last night."

"The short version goes like this. I was feeling…I was missing Sam. I went to find Aaron, he was making out with someone else, we broke up, I decided to get drunk, I went to a bar. This guy, Brett," he spits out the name, "he thought we had a connection or some shit I guess because when I went to the bathroom he followed me in and…" Dean swallows. This part is harder than he thought it would be to say. He gestures to his neck. "He kind of took me my surprise, and I wasn't into it."

"He assaulted you? What exactly did he do?"

"Is that important?"

"You could press charges."

"Why? Because some douchebag got handsy after a few drinks? I doubt the cops are going to care about a gay guy getting groped in the bathroom."

"Is that all he did?"

"Yeah." Dean wonders what would have happened if he hadn't—"I kind of started having one of those panic attacks I guess because I couldn't breathe and I sort of, um, passed out. And when I woke up, he was gone."

"You passed out?"

"It was weird. I wasn't that drunk. But I just couldn't—I froze, and it was like I couldn't fight back. It was…"Dean belatedly realizes he's jiggling his knees and gripping the arms of his chair. "I should have fought back. I mean, I tried, and he didn't stop. And then I froze."

"There was nothing you 'should have' done, Dean. He attacked you. The human response is an animal response: fight, flight, or freeze. You tried to fight, it didn't work. So you froze. It's a survival instinct. And you survived."

Dean lets out a shuddering breath. "Yeah." He scrubs his hand over his face. "Okay. Thanks. I just needed to tell someone. I'm fine. I know I'm fine. I just…I went to a bad place for a minute."

Dr. F makes a sound that Dean can't identify. He says softly, "Where did you go, Dean?"

"I don't really want to talk about it." Dean's known, from the day he started seeing Dr. F that That Night would probably come up one day. But he's not sure he wants to talk about it today. Or ever. He likes Dr. F. They've got a good thing going. And in a weird way, Dean wants to spare him. He doesn't want the Doc to have to look at him and see someone who's own father sold him out for whatever measly amount John owed those monsters.

Dr. F hums. "Some other time." He crosses his legs. "And it's okay not to be fine, Dean, after having something like that happen. It can take a while to feel like yourself again. I think it helps to talk about it, though."

"You think talking helps everything," Dean says, not without a bit of fondness.

"True. So I'm here. Whenever you want to talk about it. Or anything else."

"I know." And Dean does. "How bout that pie?"


	12. Winchester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean gets some news and takes a road trip.

Dean thought that would be it. He'd tell Dr. F about Brett, he'd never go to that shitty bar again, he'd spend a few nights eating Chunky Monkey and by the time Sam called the next Sunday, he'd be fine.

But he's not.

He gets up late, he turns the television on with breakfast and doesn't turn it off again until he absolutely has to get ready for work. He goes to the restaurant, phones it in, and comes home, falling asleep on the couch watching late night sports recaps six nights out of seven. He stops working on his business plan or testing new pie recipes. When Sam calls, he doesn't mention ending things with Aaron or anything else that might worry Sam at all. Sam, for his part, seems to be finding his way. He likes his classes, he likes the people, and he's developed a taste for shots of espresso. Typical. Give Dean diner coffee any day of the week.

The bruise on his neck's long since faded, but Dean still finds himself probing the area with his fingers, as if he can still feel Brett's mouth on him. He hasn't jerked off in two weeks. It's not as bad as it was after That Night, when Dean could barely stand to take a shower and touch his own body even if only to clean it for weeks, maybe months, after.

But it's not good. Dr. F comments on the bags under Dean's eyes and he lies, saying he's been up working late on his business plan. Dr. F smiles at that, full of hope and support for Dean's stupid idea that's never a million years going to happen. Dean feels even more like shit for lying to the doc, which he tries not to do on principal because he doesn't deserve it. Maybe Dean should just stop going altogether if that's how it's going to be.

His hand is on his phone, itching to cancel his appointment for the next day, when it rings, startling him out of staring off into space for the umpteenth time that day. He answers the call without checking who it is.

"Dean? That you?"

"Bobby?"

"How ya doing, kid? Long time since I heard from you. How's Sam doing in It-ly?

"Sam's doing great. Yeah. Sorry I haven't called in a while." Bobby's gravelly voice warms Dean up and he finds himself smiling for the first time in recent memory.

"Listen, is now a good time? I have something to tell you."

"What? Spit it out, Bobby."

"John's dead."

Dean's first thought is _I know_. John's been dead as far as Dean is concerned for the past eight years. But then he realizes what Bobby's saying. John's _dead_. "Oh. How'd you hear?"

"Luck, I guess. It happened near a year ago, actually, out in Nebraska. He was a John Doe. But they finally traced some of the numbers on his phone, made an ID, and notified the Marines so they could process him. A buddy I got there just happened to see it pass through and he gave me a call."

"A year ago?" That's still longer than Dean would have imagined he'd survive, bouncing around town to town, bar to bar. "Any sign of the Impala?"

"No. Not much in the way of personal effects. I called the town that found him, they already cremated him. If you want the number, you'd probably be able to get whatever they have left."

Dean can't imagine what his father could possibly have had on his person when he died that Dean would want. The Impala was probably the hardest thing to walk away from, seeing as he and Sam had basically been raised inside of it. But if she was gone, there was nothing Dean wanted.

"Nah. But thanks for letting me know. I'll call Sam." Sam. Dean's stomach turns over. Will his brother be sad? They never talk about their dad, or their mom, for that matter.

"There's something else. I did get my hands on a copy of the death certificate, and I put in for the insurance."

"What insurance?"

"The life insurance. Your daddy had a policy from way back. I remember helping him fill out the paperwork. I'm surprised he kept it current, old John wasn't the most consistent fellow. Since he had yours and Sam's old Social Security numbers on there, I figured I may as well get the ball rolling for you."

Dean still doesn't understand. "Me and Sam? What—"

"It's a hundred grand, each. I don't think you'll have to pay tax on it. Tidy sum of money, Dean. You better think on what you want to do with it."

"You're telling me John Winchester took out a life insurance policy that benefits me and Sam? And we're due a hundred thousand dollars apiece?"

"That's what I'm saying, son. And it's almost a done deal. Sign a few papers and I'll have it wired to your account."

Dean doesn't know what to say. "Bobby."

"It's all right, son."

"He's really gone?" Dean wouldn't put it past his father to enact some elaborate scheme to flush Sam and Dean out of the woodwork.

"He's gone. I seen pictures. Not pretty, but it was him. I guess he got on the wrong side of a poker game and ended up in a ditch with internal bleeding."

"Jesus." Dean's not sorry he's gone, but he feels a stab of sympathy for the man his father became. He'd like to think if Mary hadn't been killed, things would have been different. But it's no use thinking about that now.

"I'd say you're due for a trip out east to see your old pal Bobby. It's been too long since I saw your ugly mug. Sam's too."

"I guess we do owe you a visit. Sam's not coming home for Christmas, though. Can we do it next year?"

"Come along yourself. Bring your young man. I'm not getting any younger."

Dean smiles at that. Bobby's going to live to be a hundred. "Aaron and me, we broke up."

"Sorry to hear that."

"It's okay." Dean says it automatically, but he realizes he means it. He's been more upset about the thing with Brett than about ending things with Aaron. Maybe after a while they really can be friends again. "You know what, Bobby? Maybe I will just come on my own. The Mustang needs to stretch her legs. And I might be a little busy next year, if things go the way I'd like them to." It's beginning to sink in that a hundred thousand dollars would give him not only starter money for the pie shop, but a cushion in case it takes a while to break even. He could start looking for a space in the new year, be up and running by Valentine's Day. Could be an auspicious day to open.

"I'm here. You're welcome anytime."

"Thanks, Bobby. For everything."

***

Telling Sam is…confusing. For one thing, even though they usually don't talk unless it's Sam's Sunday call, Dean has his room's landline number and his European cell, and Sam doesn't pick up either at first when Dean calls a few minutes after hanging up with Bobby. Then Dean's got to go to work, so he decides to wait until the next day, but he has therapy, and has to go through the whole thing with Dr. F.

"My dad died," Dean says flatly, when Dr. F says hello. "Bobby called me yesterday to tell me. Apparently it happened a while ago, but he just found out."

"What are you feeling?"

"I'm…relieved? Is that terrible? I spent years literally looking over my shoulder once we got away from him to make sure he never found us. We changed our names, we didn't show up in the public record as brothers. We could have moved around some more, instead of staying here in Petaluma, but after doing that all growing up I just couldn't do it to Sam. He got to go to the same middle school, the same high school, have the same friends. Be on the soccer team and the debate team and I just couldn't take that away from him. But I always worried that the longer we stayed in one place, the easier it would be for him to find us. When Sam turned eighteen, it didn't seem to matter anymore. And now he's dead. I don't miss him. I guess I kind of miss the kind of father he could have been if Mom hadn't—but whatever, it's over."

"It's okay to be relieved that someone who caused you a lot of pain and fear is not longer able to hurt you. Have you told Sam?"

"I couldn't get him on the phone yesterday. Haven't tried today."

"You want to try him now?"

"I'll do it later." Dean wants privacy for that conversation. "The good news is, apparently there's a life insurance policy and Bobby says Sam and me are coming into some money. If it comes through, I want to use it for the pie shop."

"That is good news. No pie today?" Dr. F looks a little disappointed, and Dean laughs. He hasn't felt this light in ages.

"Sorry, Doc. I'll get you next week, I promise."

Sam doesn't pick up when Dean tries his room later that day before work, but he finally picks up his cell on the fifth ring. "Si?"

"Buongiorno," Dean replies. It's pretty much the only Italian word he knows, besides Ferrari and Lamborghini.

"Dean? Shit. Sorry. Everything okay?"

"Are you okay? It's really noisy."

"I'm in between classes. What's up?"

"You want to call me later?"

"No, it's cool. I'll—" Sam covers the phone with his hand and says something Dean can't hear. When he comes back on the line, it's quieter. "What's going on."

"Bobby called me yesterday. To tell me John—uh, Dad—he's dead. I thought you'd want to know."

Sam doesn't answer right away. "Is he sure it's Dad?"

"Pretty sure. He was cremated, though. No body. I guess it happened a while ago but he wasn't identified until a few days ago."

"Oh."

"Sam? You okay?"

"Yeah. I'm okay. Thanks for letting me know. How's Bobby?"

"He's good. I might head out and see him at Christmas, since you…well."

"Good, that's good. You should do that. We should have done it before now."

"Yeah. You can come next time, all right?"

"All right. How are you doing?"

"I'm good." Dean doesn't mention the life insurance money. For one, thing, if it's a scam or something, Dean doesn't want to get Sam's hopes up. He thinks he knows what Sam'll want to do with his 100K. It'll make law school a hell of a lot easier. Dean wonders where Sam will apply. The Bay area? Or maybe he likes being far away from Dean. Maybe he'll try for New York or Chicago. Dean clears his throat. "All right, I better go, this long distance thing is killing my minutes right now."

"All right. Thanks for calling, Dean."

"Yep. Be good, Sammy." Dean hangs up before Sam can respond.

Life starts speeding up after that phone call. He gets a packet of papers from Bobby, some of which he needs to sign. He's rusty at signing anything with the name Dean Winchester, so he has to practice a few times. Sam's got some paperwork, too. Dean spends a fortune to mail them with every kind of tracking and certification and finally calls Sam to tell him to expect them. "You better read everything. It's all legal, since we never exactly stopped being ourselves, but knowing you, you'll actually like reading the fine print."

"Dad set this up for us? Seriously?"

"Either Dad or Bobby, but he's giving John the credit. Either way, a hundred thousand dollars is nothing to sneeze at."

"No, it's amazing. I'll let you know when the papers arrive. Thanks, Dean. And I'll be thanking Bobby, too."

A few weeks later, the money's sitting in Dean's bank account. He stares at the number on the screen of the ATM and swallows. This is it. He can actually try to make this work. He has no more excuses. If he fails, it's not because of circumstances, or money. It'll be because he fucked it up.

Dean's fucked up his share of things in life. He doesn't want to fuck this up. He's done his homework, he's made the profit and loss statements, he's done the market research, he's sourced materials and ingredients. He knows the vendors from working at the restaurant. He's got his eye on a few different locations, all have pros and cons, but all are in his budget. He's got his menu pretty well set—fifteen core selections and five seasonal slots. Plus coffee, and a few higher-margin items. The folks at the local SBA office helped him prep the paperwork with the state, permits and licenses all that. He's even picked out the name. All he has to do now is pull the damn trigger. 

Three weeks before Christmas, Dean walks into his boss's office and gives notice. He wouldn't leave her in the lurch so close to the holidays, except he's been training his second-in-command for weeks to take over for him. She'll do a great job, the restaurant won't even miss him.

The day after his last day of work, he packs up the Mustang with some clothes, a cooler of soda, sandwiches, and snacks, and drives the 1700 miles to Bobby's. He takes three days, stopping when's tired, singing classic rock the whole way at the top of his lungs. Singing loud makes him forget this is the first road trip he's ever taken without Sammy in the passenger seat. He always figured when he'd go back to Bobby's, Sam would be with him. 

He supposes that's because he never could imagine a future, a time, when Sam wouldn't be there with him.

Bobby greets him with open arms and a honey ham for Christmas dinner that's the best thing Dean's ever eaten. They stuff themselves and split some Wild Turkey for dessert. Plus, the apple pie Dean made once he remembered it's Bobby's favorite.

"Karen used to make a mean apple pie," Bobby says, mentioning his late wife. She died before John ever started showing up on Bobby's doorstep with his two young sons. "But this one is out of this world. You been practicing?"

"As a matter of fact." Dean tells him about his plans for the shop. He's on vacation now, but when he gets back to Petaluma, it's all pies, all the time. "Hoping to open up by Valentine's Day. Maybe a couple of weeks before if things go good."

"A pie shop? You don't say. Well, I'm going to have to come see this for myself."

"Anytime, Bobby. Anything you want, on the house."

"You better not be too free with the friends-and-family discount if you want to turn a profit."

"Yeah, I know." Dean smiles. The apple pie is really excellent. He uses a hint of grated lemon zest to brighten all the flavors. Then his smile slips a little. He's going to need more than a killer apple pie to make this work. "I'm going to do my best."

"I'm real proud of you, Dean. You're going to do great."

"Thanks." Dean needs all the good will get can get. Bobby's vote of confidence means something.

His gaze catches on the old couch in the living room, the couch Sam crashed on the night they arrived, bedraggled runaways, hungry and scared and in need of nothing as much as a helping hand with no agenda. He misses Sam with a fierceness that startles him. He rubs his breastbone, hard, but the ache never goes away.

"You saved our lives, Bobby. You know that right?"

Bobby stills in the act of pouring himself another finger of bourbon.

"Glad I could help."

"You don't know how scared I was. If we hadn't had you to come to. I knew that even if if you didn't let us stay, didn't stake us, you at least wouldn't call Dad. But you did so much more for us."

"You saved you and Sam, not me," Bobby says. "I'm just glad you had the balls to leave him. It must have got pretty bad there."

"You have no—" Dean shudders again, thinking about how if John had gotten away with it once, he would have tried it again. And he still can't get the idea of John threatening to put Sam in Dean's place out of his mind. He'll never be able to forget that stomach-churning dread. "Well, anyway. Thank you."

"You're a good man, Dean Winchester. Smith. Whatever."

"Winchester. We've always been Winchesters. That's actually what I'm going to call the pie shop. Winchester Pie Company."

"I like the sound of that."

"It never sat right with me, that Sam and I had different names all this time. I mean, I know why we had to do it like that. But now, it doesn't seem to matter. Maybe I'll go back to Winchester for good."

"I'm glad you came, Dean. Now, best be getting some sleep. I've got a car up on blocks in the garage I'm having some trouble with. Maybe you can give me a hand in the morning."

"Sure." Dean stands up, and as he passes by Bobby, slumped in his chair, Dean leans over, gives him a one-armed hug, and then walks up to the bedroom that he last slept in when he was seventeen. There's still two twins, as if the room is waiting for those two teenage boys to come back. Those boys are long gone. But Dean can almost hear Sam's breathing as he falls asleep.


	13. Valentine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean opens Winchester Pie Company and gets a surprise visitor on Valentine's Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this on January 24, so happy birthday, Dean! <3 <3 <3

Winchester Pie Company opens soft on Tuesday the first of February, after a frantic month of preparation. Dean's exhausted, having had as little as four hours sleep every night for a week. He started the new year by signing the lease on his favorite of the potential shop locations, a former bakery that's sat empty for two years and was already outfitted with a commercial baking kitchen. The previous owners had styled the place back in the early nineties with lots of Formica and bright colors. Dean makes it over with wood tables, iron-backed chairs, and simple, clean lines. A chalkboard list the daily specials and drinks menu. He spends what feels like an obscene amount of money to get the really good Italian espresso machine. It takes him a week of experimenting to get the hang of a hella good espresso, but he knows the investment will be worth it. Pie may be delicious, but coffee's addictive.

Dr. F is his first customer on opening day. He buys an entire lemon meringue pie to take home to his wife and a slice of bourbon pecan that he eats right then and there. Dean's chest puffs out when the doc shakes his hand, looks into his eyes and says, "I knew you could do it, Dean."

"Couldn't have done it without you, Doc," Dean says warmly. Dr. F's answering smile feels like graduating.

There's a feature on him in the local paper, the attractive young man opening the first pie-only bakery in the county in a decade. He and the only front-of-house employee he's got, Gina, who thankfully understands how the computer that runs the cash register works better than Dean ever will, sell out of their entire stock by 3PM. By the end of the first week, he's hired a second baker in addition to Edgar, his original hire, and a second front-of-house person to spell Gina.

Thankfully, they're closed Sundays and Dean sleeps till noon. But he's back at the shop by mid-afternoon to check their supplies and make sure Edgar and Lydia have what they need to get started bright and early Monday morning.

When he thinks to check his phone, he realizes he's missed Sam's usual Sunday call. He dials back, but Sam doesn't answer. He can't worry about their check-in when the shop keeps him so busy, so he doesn't even really think about it when he misses the second Sunday call in a row. They're super busy getting ready for Valentine's Day. They have enough pre-orders for his special chocolate cream pie with the chocolate crust that they'll be baking from dawn 'til dusk every day, plus Dean knows to expect plenty of last minute walk-ins looking for a sweet treat to take home to their loved ones. The pie shop isn't always slammed, obviously, but he can already tell that maximizing holidays are going to be good for the business's bottom line.

He's in the shop before dawn on Valentine's Day, making sure the front of the house looks perfect, and that the signage reflects what they actually have in stock. He scrubs down the already-gleaming counters, checks that the cash drawer is stocked. He seeds the tip jar with a five. Gina's going to make out like a bandit today. But she'll have earned it.

They don't open for another half hour, so he's surprised to hear a tap on the front door. He hasn't even fired up the espresso machine yet, but he's loathe to disappoint a potential customer. He turns around with a smile, but it falls away when he sees who's on the other side of the glass door.

Sam.

Dean blinks. He's got to be having some kind of exhaustion-induced hallucination because Sam's in Rome. He's not supposed to come home until June.

But the Sam-shaped person taps on the door again, smiling a little, and Dean moves to open up.

"Dean."

"Sam."

And then he's got his arms around his little brother. He doesn't know who moved first, if he hugged Sam or if Sam hugged him, but it doesn't matter. He's got Sam in his arms and he feels so, so good.

"Let me look at you," Dean says, pushing him away but keeping his hand on Sam's arm. "Damn, you grew some more."

Sam laughs, shrugs a single shoulder. He does look bigger, taller, if possible, and broader, filled out. He's tan, too, his teeth gleaming white in contrast. "The climate agrees with me, I guess."

"What the hell are you doing here? Please don't tell me you got kicked out."

Sam laughs again, and it's a sound Dean didn't know how badly he's been missing, because he wants to bottle it. "No, nothing like that. I just—I wanted to be here, to see this. To see you. I know you've been so busy with everything, Bobby told me, and I thought I'd just come and see for myself. I had a few days off school, so."

"Yeah?" Dean can't help laughing. "You came all this way for a slice of pie?"

Sam grins. "I guess I did."

Dean doesn't care if the first ten customers have to wait, he's going to make his little brother a cup of coffee and a slice of pie. He makes Sam tell him the saga of getting from Rome to Petaluma while he heats up the espresso machine.

"I slept a lot on the second flight, so even though my internal clock is all messed up, I'm not too tired."

"And this will perk you right up." He sets the white porcelain demitasse cup down in front of Sam with a flourish.

"Espresso?" Sam lifts an eyebrow.

"Try it."

Sam lifts the cup to his lips. Dean allows himself the pleasure of watching Sam drink. Sam swallows, closes his eyes and moans. "That's so good. It tastes like Rome." He opens his eyes, his voice almost reverent. "How did you do that?"

"A bunch of trial and error. I've been on a caffeine high for a month. And now." Dean sets down a plate with his next offering. "How do you like that?"

Sam picks up his fork and eyes the pie dubiously. "What is it?"

"Just eat."

Sam scoops up a generous helping and sticks the entire bite in his mouth at once. Dean holds his breath until Sam's done chewing and swallowing.

"It's…it's Lucky Charms," Sam sputters incredulously.

"I call it Sam's Cereal Pie," Dean says. "Marshmallow meringue, sugar cookie crust, and a dulce de leche filling. It'll get you sugar high, but I think it's pretty good."

"Good? It's like magic."

"Magically delicious," Dean quips.

"And you named it after me?"

"Who else do I know would eat Lucky Charms for every meal if he could?"

"Maybe when I was ten."

"It's for the ten-year-old in all of us."

"Thanks, Dean. It's really good." Sam takes another bite. "But between this and coffee and the jet lag, I'm either going to need to take a run around the block or eat something more substantial before I pass out."

"There's a decent breakfast burrito at the place on the corner. Why don't you get us both some breakfast and then you can go crash at home? It's going to be crazy here today."

"Really? Business is good?"

"Business has been better than projected," Dean says cautiously. "But we launched solid, and V-Day's helping. Let's wait and see how we fare in March. Not sure that there's a lot of demand for St. Patrick's Day pies."

Sam scans the cozy shop. "This place is amazing. I can't believe you did it all in a month."

"Yeah. I guess I thought if I didn't just do it, I never would." Dean hasn't had a spare second to really let it all sink in, but looking around with with fresh eyes, he's got to admit it's all turned out better than he could have hoped. So far. "Now get. I have work to do."

"Save me the rest of that pie. I'll have it for dessert." Sam gets up, stretches his arms over his head. 

Dean tracks the way his t-shirt rides up a bit to expose the top of his jeans, the edge of his boxers underneath. His eyes snap back up to his brother's.

"Thanks for coming, Sam. It's good to see you."

"You too, Dean. I can't believe I haven't seen you in over six months. I didn't think that a whole year abroad would really feel so long."

"When you do have to go back?"

Sam's face clouds. "Wednesday night."

Two days. But two days Dean wasn't expecting to get. "If no major crises come up, I could take some time off tomorrow. We could hang out."

"Sounds good."

Dean shoos Sam out the door, tries to hand him a twenty but Sam just rolls his eyes. "I can buy my own breakfast burrito, Dean. And yours, too."

"Fine, fine, just get out of my hair."

Sam grins, and then he's gone. If he hadn't left his backpack by the chair, Dean would have thought he'd imagined him entirely.

Gina shows up a few minutes later, and they start boxing up the preorders. There's a line when Dean finally opens the doors, and they're slammed. He can't spare a thought for Sam, or his breakfast burrito that he wouldn't have time to eat anyway, until the front doorbell jingles again and Sam's there, paper sack in hand. Deans sees him take in the line of people as he starts making a latte for a customer.

Sam's at his elbow all of a sudden. "How can I help?" 

"Grab an apron, wash your hands, and help the next person in line," Gina says before Dean can respond.

"Okay."

Dean's about to protest, but then Sam grabs the extra apron from behind the register and puts it on. The faded blue denim looks good on him. Dean winces as he almost burns his hand on the milk he's steaming. He keeps one eye on the latte and the other on Sam as his brother steps right up, asks to help the next person in line. The customer has a preorder. Sam manages to find the box with the person's name on it, and take the payment straightforwardly enough. Dean relaxes a degree.

With three pairs of hands, they whittle the line down by lunchtime. Most of the pre-orders have been picked up and they close at four anyway.

"Retail is hard work," Sam says, wiping his forehead. "I could use another espresso."

"Thanks for pitching in, Sammy," Dean says. He'd dropped one pie to smithereens on the floor, but otherwise has been more helpful than not.

"Of course," Sam says. "It is the Winchester Pie Company, after all. And I'm a Winchester."

Dean's whole chest feels like a sunrise. "That you are."

***

The shop's done its best one-day total ever, which isn't saying much since they've only been open for two weeks, but still. Gina goes home with a hundred dollars in tips—Sam and Dean refuse to take a cut. She's also agreed to open the shop tomorrow. "Take the day off, Dean. We'll be fine, and I promise I'll call you if there's an emergency." Dean doesn't think he's going to be able to actually stay away from the shop for the entire day, but he trusts Gina to at least open on her own. 

After she locks up behind her, Dean and Sam sit in the darkened shop in mirror image of that morning. This time Dean's eating a slice of pie, and Sam's watching him eat it.

"You'd think I'd be sick of my own pie by now, but I figure I deserve a slice of chocolate cream."

"It was a good day," Sam says. "You're amazing at this."

"I'm hanging on by my fingernails sometimes, but so far so good. It feels nice walking in and knowing the place is mine."

"I'm glad. You should have something, well, permanent."

"It's only a year's lease, kiddo. I have to balance the books before I can make long term plans."

"It'll work. I know it will." Sam's voice is warm and sure. "So, you and Aaron got plans for tonight?"

Dean coughs on a crumb of pie crust. "What?"

"It's Valentine's Day, in case you forgot," Sam says with a little smile.

Dean considers lying. But why would he? "We broke up. A few months ago."

"You—oh. Why—" Sam seems to answer all his own questions in his head before spitting them all the way out. "Okay."

Dean wonders if Sam is missing Jess tonight. If he's dating someone back in Italy and they're wondering why they're alone while Sam's half a world away spending Valentine's Day with his brother. Do they even celebrate Valentine's Day in Italy? He opens his mouth to ask, but then realizes he doesn't want to know. Sam's here, with him, in his very own pie shop, and no one else matters right now. Not Aaron or Dr. F or Jess or any faceless girl that's pining for Sam.

It's just the two of them. Dean's selfish enough to want to keep the rest of the world out for a minute.

He licks the last trace of chocolate off his fork. "So, what do you want to do tonight? Go out?"

Sam raises his eyebrows. Dean realizes belatedly that going out with your brother on Valentines' Day is a weird look. "How about pizza and a movie at home?" Sam suggests.

"Done." Pizza and a movie with his little brother. Dean couldn't imagine a more perfect Valentine's Day.

***

They're both so exhausted from the day—really the weeks leading up to the day for Dean, and the series of flights for Sam—that Sam's asleep halfway through _Evil Dead 2_ , his hair flopping over his forehead as he lolls on the couch cushions, angled toward Dean. It would be easy to shift, to let Sam's head fall on his shoulder, to settle back and watch the rest of the movie with Sam's comforting weight on him, but then Dean lets out a jaw-cracking yawn, and he rethinks the idea of them both falling asleep sitting up on the couch. Instead, he nudges Sam, who blinks sleepily.

"Come on, you're taking the bed." He practically lifts Sam off the couch, not intending to accept any argument, but it seems Sam's too sleepy to protest. They shuffle the few feet to the bedroom and Sam falls heavily face first on the bed. His shoes are already off, so Dean just throws the comforter over him. 

God, he missed him so much. There's something that's missing when Sam's away, that only Sam being close can provide. It's a little twisted, more than a little codependent, as he and Dr. F have talked about once and again. But right now, with Sam safe and sleeping in Dean's bed, he doesn't care. He doesn't give a fuck what anybody else thinks or what they would say. He only cares that Sam, his _heart_ , is near.

He stands there for a long time watching Sam sleep, memorizing the sound of his breathing for the lonely nights ahead. Yeah, it's creepy and weird. And Dean doesn't care.

He finally backs out of the room slowly, silently, strips off his jeans and shirt and grabs the other comforter from the hall closet. He can't be bothered to make the pull-out; they can do it tomorrow night. For now, he cocoons on the couch, falling asleep imagining he can hear Sam breathing from the next room.

***

What seems like five minutes after closing his eyes, Dean hears Sam up and moving around. He dozes, and the next thing he knows he smells toast and bacon. He opens his eyes. It's barely light outside.

"What time is it?"

"Six thirty. Sorry."

Dean's up at five most mornings now because of the shop, so he'll live. "Jet lagged?"

"Yeah, it's like lunchtime for me or something. Hope you don't mind. Since we basically only have today anyway."

Dean rubs his eyes. Yeah, he's tired, but that's what coffee's for. It warms his heart that Sam wants to get the most out of their time together, too. He won't think about having to say goodbye tomorrow.

"No problem. I smell bacon."

"You can have all the bacon."

"Spoiling me," Dean teases.

Sam ducks his head, hiding behind his mop of hair so Dean can't see his face, but he thinks Sam might be smiling.

Dean feels like he can survive Sam going back to Rome, not seeing him for another four months, if he can make him smile like that a few more times today. 

"So what do you want to do today?"

"Maybe we could take a drive? I'll bet you haven't been anywhere but here and the shop in a while."

"Been pretty busy," Dean confirms. "Okay, sounds good." 

He calls in the shop. Edgar and Lydia are doing their thing and Gina's there early, getting everything prepped. "Katie's coming in at nine, so I won't be here alone. Seriously, Dean, don't come in today. We're fine." Dean's palms go a little sweaty at the idea, but he glances over a Sam, who's putting together a bag of sandwiches and chips for their drive and he relents. The shop's going to have to be able to survive without him there every minute of the day eventually.

They gas up the Mustang and head north out of town, no real destination in mind. It's chilly and overcast, not a stunningly beautiful California day, but Dean doesn't feel the cold. Sam's sun enough for him.

They head for the coast, turning off the highway and exploring quiet coastal roads. They pull over at a deserted beach that's more rocks than sand. Sam strips off his sneakers and Dean tugs off his boots and they go walking in the tide pools, picking up rocks and interesting shells, then setting them back down again, like little boys. The fresh air and the sand under his feet actually does feel good.

Sam gets a few dozen yards ahead of him. Dean watches him bend down and pick something invisible up from the sand and then shove it in his pocket. Maybe some kind of unusual shell. He smiles and memorizes Sam's silhouette against the sand and rocks, the faded blue sky the same color as the Winchester Pie Co. aprons. 

"I needed this," Dean says, when the sun's setting over the Pacific, turning the water to molten gold.

"Me too." Sam says. "Rome is incredible, but it's been hard to be so far away."

"Yeah?" Dean's pretty sure it's impossible that Sam's missed him a tenth as much as he's missed Sam, but it's good to know he hasn't totally been forgotten.

"I should have come home at the holidays, gone with you to Bobby's."

"Next year," Dean says easily.

"Okay. Sounds good. I'll be a senior, can you believe that?"

"Not really." It feels like just yesterday Dean dropped Sam off as a freshman. "You thought about after?"

"A little. Law school is the obvious choice." Sam doesn't exactly sound excited about it.

"You got some time."

"Yeah."

As soon as the sun's all the way below the horizon the wind picks up and it starts getting really cold. They hike back to their shoes, don them for the trek back to the Mustang. Sam shivers. Dean wants to put his arm around him, to warm him up. Instead, he blasts the heat as they follow the narrow beach road back to the highway.

"Home?" he asks.

"I guess we should." Sam says. "Wish I didn't have to leave tomorrow."

"Yeah." Dean sees a sign that has him pulling off the road almost as soon as they get on. "Dinner first. In 'n Out?"

Sam perks up. "I'd kill for a double double animal style."

"I'm getting animal style fries."

"Oh god, good idea."

They load up on carbs at the drive-thru, plus order a chocolate shake for Dean and a vanilla one for Sam.

Dean drives with one hand on the wheel, one hand on his burger, which is salty and hot. Sam's moaning around his and the sounds make Dean's skin feel too small. They're maybe an hour's easy drive from Petaluma, but for some reason he wants to delay. Maybe it's because having Sam in the passenger seat feels so right. More right than them sleeping in separate rooms in the apartment. He pulls off the road again, at a turnout where they have a view of the night sky.

"What's up?" Sam asks.

"Hang on." Dean licks his fingers, then gets out of the car. He retrieves a blanket from the trunk and gestures for Sam to join him. They finish their meal leaning against the hood of the Mustang, scratchy wool blanket underneath them, blanket of stars above. They don't talk. They don't need to. 

Dean glances over and takes in Sam's familiar profile. The upturned nose, the sharp cheekbones, the soft lips, the strong brow. The shape of his brother is so familiar, and yet Dean almost feels like he's seeing him for the first time as a man, not a kid, not a teenager. Sam will be twenty-two in a minute.

Sam turns his head and Dean doesn't turn his away in time. They lock gazes. Dean can see the stars reflected in Sam's eyes. He wonders what Sam is seeing in his.

"You getting cold? Want to go?"

"In a minute," Sam says quietly. He shifts a little closer to Dean. Dean can feel Sam's flannel shirt brush against his arm.

Yeah. In a minute.

It's not too late when they finally roll back into Dean's parking spot outside their building, but Dean's got to get up early the next morning for work. They climb the stairs to the apartment slowly.

"You want to keep me company at the shop? How are you getting to the airport?"

"I'll take a cab. And yeah, I could come help out again." Sam yawns as Dean gets the door open. It must feel like the middle of the night to him.

"You don't have to work, you know. I'm happy for you just to hang out. You could read. You probably have work you could catch up on."

"Yeah. Okay."

"Help me make the sofa bed. I can't do the couch again."

When the bed's made up, Dean's about to take a turn in the bathroom, but Sam's hovering awkwardly. "What's up, Sam?"

"I should take this, I already put you out of your bed once."

"I'm going to be up at five, out of the house by 5:30. You take the bed, sleep in if you can."

"If that's what you want."

"That's what I want." Dean goes to brush his teeth. When he comes out, Sam's changed into sweatpants and a plain white tee, and he's sitting on the edge of the pull out bed. "Dude. I said you can have my room."

"I know. I just. I wanted to ask you something," Sam seems nervous.

"All right," Dean sits down in the bed with a few feet between them. "Shoot."

"How did you—" Sam stops. His cheeks are pink. What the hell? Sam starts again. "After Jess and I broke up, I thought I'd be single for a while, you know. I didn't think I'd meet anyone, wasn't looking, whatever."

Dean tries to keep his face neutral. Sam's met someone. His stomach takes an unaccountable swan dive. "You're seeing someone?"

"More like hooking up. I don't think we're technically in a relationship. I didn't even realize that what was happening was happening at first, if that makes any sense? It kind of snuck up on me. So I don't know, maybe it's just sex, but how do I know if…"

"I really don't know what you're getting at here, Sammy. You have some friends with benefits situation with some hot chick and you want to put a label on it? Just go with the flow."

"Yeah, it's not a hot chick. Um. His name is Balthazar. He's an exchange student, too, from England."

He. Sam. What? Dean doesn't even know where to start so he goes with, "What kind of a name is Balthazar?"

Sam laughs, rubs his hand on the back of his neck. "Yeah. It's kind of a mouthful."

Dean chokes on nothing. "Sammy—rule number one of being gay, or bi, or whatever—don't say 'mouthful' if you don't want to be made fun of for eternity."

Sam goes scarlet and lets out a sharp laugh. "Shit. I'm…I don't know what I am."

"It's okay. You don't have to know. You don't have to give it a name. Is that what you're worried about? That you need to define it?"

"I like defining things," Sam says.

"I know you do, but not everything needs to be all neat and tidy. So you hooked up with a dude. And you liked it." Dean licks his lips, checks with Sammy. "You did like it, right?" If Sam didn't, then Dean will get on a plane tomorrow and leave this Balthazar person nothing more than a stain on the sidewalk.

"Uh. Yeah." He's even redder now. "It was kind of fucking awesome."

Dean spares a second to appreciate the fact that Sam seems to have a normal relationship with sex. Thank god. "So what's the problem?"

"You don't, I don't know, think it's weird that it turns out I like guys?"

The unspoken "too" hangs in the air. As if Dean being gay and essentially celibate until he was twenty-four wasn't enough weird for one family.

"What do you want me to say, Sammy? I don't have a monopoly on queer. It's all just the same thing, guys, girls, we're all just people looking to feel good. If you're asking—" Dean wonders how to put this without messing Sam up even more "—is it 'cause of how we were raised, I don't know. I don't think so. The doc would probably say at the end of the day, it doesn't matter anyway. I'm pretty sure I was born liking dick better than pussy, but who cares? I certainly don't. As long as you're happy."

"Are _you_ happy?" Sam looks at him with his puppy dog eyes and Dean closes his own defensively.

"Shit, Sam." He thinks about how goddamn happy he's been all day. When Sam leaves, he'll try, he'll try to be happy with his shop and his life and his car and his aching loneliness. "I'm getting there."

"Okay."

"I gotta get some sleep. You gonna be okay?"

Sam jumps up off the bed, looking guilty. "Yes, I'm good. Sorry. You go to sleep."

"It's all good, Sammy."

Sam turns off the living room lamp and hovers again while Dean situates himself under the sheets. "Thanks, Dean."

For what, Dean's not sure, but he lets out a gruff, "Good night."

"Good night."

Sam disappears into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. Dean's eyes close heavily. He dreams of the beach, the stars from the sky shining under the water, and Sam picking them up and showing Dean each one with a dimpled smile.

***

Sam's spent the better part of the day at one of the corner tables reading from a couple of different books, making occasional notes in a brown leather journal that Dean would have made of fun of for being Euro-trashy, except he remembers their dad had something similar when they were growing up. 

It's been a decent day, but nowhere near as busy as Valentine's Day. Dean's going over the numbers on some of his ingredient orders. There's no office, just the kitchen and small storeroom in the back, and the front with the long counter, refrigerated cases and cash wrap, and the wrapping station and espresso machine behind. Dean could have taken one of the other tables but he's been working at the counter, leaning over his spreadsheets with his calculator and pencil, half focused on the numbers, half focused on his brother.

The store's empty and Dean's about to throw the closed sign up on the door and call Sam a cab. He'd drive him to the airport himself, but he's expecting some deliveries and he's the only one left, his bakers having left after lunch, Gina signing off an hour ago.

Dean can't let Sam leave without saying one thing. It's been on his mind since last night, maybe longer than that. And maybe he should have said something before now, it's not like just because Sam's discovered he also likes guys that he's suddenly vulnerable. But it seems like a more real possibility with the memory of Brett in that dank bathroom no longer raw, but still there under the surface, making Dean feel uneasy whenever his mind hits on it.

He's not going to get into all that, but he just needs to—"You be careful, Sam. I know you can take care of yourself, in pretty much any situation, but when you're drinking or whatever." 

Sam looks up from his book, raises his eyebrows at the "whatever." As far as Dean knows, Sam's never touched anything stronger than a pot brownie, but until last night, Dean hadn't known that Sam liked dick, either, so what he doesn't know about Sam might be more than he thinks. "When your guard is down, I just want you to be careful. Guys can be assholes, and they don't know when to stop, sometimes." 

Sam raises his eyebrows even higher. "Are you reminding me that no means no?"

"Not you, obviously. You wouldn't hold someone's hand without asking them first, I'm talking about…" He looks at Sam, who's six four now, and layered with sinewy muscle. He probably knows exactly how many drinks he can have before he's anywhere near judgment impaired. He still knows how to throw a punch, and take one. Dean's being ridiculous. Just because one asshole got the drop on Dean doesn't mean— "Forget it. You want some pie for the road?"

"What do you think?" Sam stands up, folds his hands together and raises them over his head in a stretch. Dean can hear his joints popping from here, turns away from the vision of Sam all stretched out, long and lean, and to the pie case, where he grabs the box he'd set aside earlier that day. He loads up a plastic bag with napkins and utensils. They stock compostable ones because the people around here dig that hippie shit, and Sam does, too. The box has three generous slices of Sam's favorites. Dean got an extra sandwich from the bodega at lunch, and he puts that in, too, plus a bottle of water. He comes around the counter and hands the whole thing to Sam, who smiles.

"Thanks Dean."

"Yeah, well, airport food sucks."

"I better call—"

"Yeah."

The cab arrives way too fast, and Dean only has a chance to give Sam one far too brief hug before Sam's shouldering his backpack and smiling one last time. "Be good, Sammy."

"You too, Dean. I'll see you in a few months." He looks around the shop. "I'm really proud of you."

Then he's gone. Dean's heart feels heavy and light for the rest of the day.


	14. Insight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has a revelation and meets someone new.

Dean's life settles into a new groove that centers around Winchester Pie Company. The shops has its ups—each month their revenue grows, and Dean even has the chance to catch up on sleep once in a while—and its downs, like the time they had to scrap an entire batch of apple pie because the new baker mistook the salt for sugar. Dean still goes to Dr. F every Friday. He doesn't date. He doesn't have time, he's too busy with the shop, that's what he tells himself, anyway.

Sam's almost through with his time in Rome. He'll be coming home in a few weeks, looking for a summer job. Dean has half a mind to offer him a job at the shop, but he knows making lattes is not what Sam needs to keep his big brain busy. Dean's just hoping if he's in the Bay that they'll make more time to see each other than they have in the past couple summers.

"Have you been going to bingo night?" Dr. F asks Dean one sunny spring Friday.

"Nah. I've turned into an early to bed, early to rise guy, Doc."

"So you haven't seen Aaron in a while?"

Aaron…he's seen him a few times. They greet each other like friends, and it's not like seeing him makes Dean wish things were different. He misses him, sort of, but he's not crying himself to sleep every night about it.

"I see him around. He's still bartending at Gordon's, I think, but since I'm not at the restaurant any more I don't see him that much."

"What about dating?"

"What about it?"

Dr. F takes a minute to respond. "The first time you came to my office, you told me you hadn't had any relationships because you had been too busy taking care of your brother. Now you say you're too busy with your business. I'm just trying to point out there might be a pattern here, where you avoid taking a look at that part of your life not because you are too busy, but because you're afraid."

"Afraid of what?" Dean asks, like a chump.

"That's the question. What do you think?"

"I don't think I buy into that whole idea of needing a boyfriend or partner or whatever to be fulfilled. Some people aren't meant to be in relationships." Dean folds his arms across his chest.

"That's true. Not everyone needs to be paired off to be happy. Some people don't even really need sex."

Dean thinks about sex with Aaron. It was good. It felt good. And he liked the parts after, where they were just close and touching, maybe talking quietly. He does miss being that close to someone. Okay, he feels lonely sometimes. But that's just because Sam's not around. He doesn't feel that ache in his gut when Sam's close. 

He feels a different one.

"I think maybe I can take or leave sex?" he says, uncertain. He knows he doesn't fit the stereotype of a sex-obsessed gay man.

"I'm just going to throw something out there, and you can tell me I'm wrong, but, have you been with anyone since the night you were assaulted? Have you even been on a date since then?"

Dean pretends to think but he already knows the answer. "No."

"And remember when we were here the morning after and you said there was something else you didn't want to talk about?"

Dean tightens his arms, as if he can protect himself by just crossing his arms really hard. "Yes."

"I'm sorry if this is upsetting for you Dean, but I want you think about if one of the reasons—not the entire reason—you're not engaging in dating or sex or relationships is because of the trauma you faced as a child? And I want you to consider that talking about it might help you let go of some of that."

Dean thins his lips out to a line. He's been talking to Dr. F for almost three whole years and part of him stubbornly wants to avoid this topic for as long as possible. But, you know—fuck it. That Night was almost ten years ago. He's grown now. He'd never admit it still has a hold on him, but Dr. F has an annoying tendency to be right about shit like this.

"You know how our childhood was—we've talked about it enough in here." A few words had come up to describe John's parenting style. Manic. Inconsistent. Neglectful. Abusive. "But I never told you the reason I finally had to get Sam away from him."

"Do you want to tell me now?"

"Shit, Doc. Not really." Dean blows out a breath of air, sinks lower in his chair. "But I'm going to. Remember you asked for this, though."

"I'm listening."

"I was sixteen. We were living in Nashville. John hadn't been working. He shows up one night, tells me to get in the car. We left Sam behind by himself. He drops me off at this motel and he basically orders me to do whatever the men inside tell me to. I think about running, refusing, what have you. He says if I don't, he'll go back and get—" Even now, nearly a decade later, Dean's blood goes cold at the thought. He swallows away the bile in his throat. "—get Sam. And I believed him. I went inside. And there were two guys there, and they gave me something spiked with something. And they…"

Dean knows he's capable of saying it. He's said it in his head before. He swallows. he doesn't look at Dr. F. He doesn't need to say it, the doc gets the idea.

"I hadn't had sex before. Kissed some girls, you know, here and there. This was um, really different."

He clears his throat. "Yeah. So that happened. It was…really horrible, actually." He laughs without humor. "I wasn't so drugged that I didn't know what was going on. Some of it's fuzzy, but…some of it's not. And the worst part was that it was my dad." Dean's voice breaks, and shit, he hasn't cried in therapy for a while. "My dad is the one who put me in that position. He didn't seem too broken up over it. And I fucking know if we'd stayed something like would have happened again. And I would have killed him before letting something like that happen to Sam. So we left as soon as we could. You pretty much know the rest."

"Did you ever tell Sam what happened to you?"

Dean sits up straight at that, lets his arms fall to his knees. "What? Hell no. He doesn't need that."

Dr. F hums noncommittally. "So, just to be clear, your father allowed you to raped by two men when you were sixteen in your first full-fledged and same-sex sexual experience."

"Shit, way to sugar-coat it, Doc." Dean doesn't know if he should be pissed or impressed at the doc's balls.

"And you didn't have sex with anyone after that until Aaron. More than six years later. Is Aaron the only person you've had sex with, period?"

"Yeah."

"And that relationship ended right around the same time you were sexually assaulted for the second time in your life."

Dean nods. He thinks for a minute. "Okay, fine, I guess there's a pattern. You were right, shocker. But I don't know what to do about it. I'm messed up. You knew this. I had a shitty childhood, a shitty dad, and I was raped. But it was one time. I got out of that situation. I'm…Dad's dead. I'm good. Sam…" He wonders briefly if Sam and Balthazar are still a thing, if Sam's upset to be leaving him to come back to the States. He's only mentioned the guy once or twice since Valentines' Day. "Sam's good. I don't need anything else. I don't need to prove that I'm over being raped by going out and screwing every guy in the state."

"I'm not encouraging you to be promiscuous Dean. And I agree with you, you don't have anything to prove. You're a survivor, Dean. You are one of the most resilient, most amazingly strong people I've ever met. I think you'd be able to face down the very apocalypse and come out the other side. But you're only human. And I think you're lonely. And I just want you to consider that you might be choosing loneliness as the lesser of two evils. You don't want to be hurt. You don't want to be scared. That's valid. But this is your life, Dean, and you deserve to have the chance to have someone to love."

"I do," Dean says automatically. "I have Sam."

"I know you have Sam. But he's your brother."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Brilliant insight, Doc."

Dr. F goes on, unruffled as always. "Dean Winchester, you deserve to love and to be loved. I'm not saying you're going to find Mr. Right tomorrow, or that you should hook up just to hook up. But I want you to consider at least moving the roadblock you've put up to that part of your life."

Dean considers that analogy. He supposes the doc has a point. Since Aaron, he hasn't even tried. And maybe he hasn't wanted to, but maybe he should think about the possibility he might want to at some point.

"Okay. I'll think about it."

"That's all I ask."

***

There's something about that interaction with the doc that niggles at Dean's subconscious for a few days after. It's not the idea that he's let that one night from over a decade ago affect him way more than he even thought he had. And it's not the nonjudgmental equanimity with which Dr. F had responded to learning Dean's darkest secret. He was grateful for the doc's matter of fact approach, naming things their names and letting Dean move on. The part that was bothering him was that last piece, when he'd said _I know you have Sam. But he's your brother._

Dean rolls that over in his mind. What about it is sticking to him like a burr on his sock? He has someone to love. Sam. But that person is his brother. What makes that different? Is it because he's not going to have sex with him? Love and sex aren't the same thing. Dr. F seems to think that Dean should be looking for someone he can both love and have sex with. The whole package, so to speak. And still, something doesn't sit right. 

He wakes up before his alarm a few days after the appointment, still half dreaming. Sam. He loves Sam. He knows that. What else would you call the sort of all-consuming feeling of rightness he gets when Sam's near? When Sam's safe? When Sam smiles at him?

Dean pictures Sam's beautiful, sometimes sly, smile. His strong body. His hands, large but nimble. Dean's swimming up from his dream, sheets wrapped messily around his body. He turns on his side. Imagines Sam lying in bed next to him, face inches away. The face he could look on forever and never get tired of.

_But he's your brother._

That's it. That's the rub. Because if Sam was literally anyone else on earth except Dean's little brother, the way he feels about him…he'd have it all. Love. Every kind of love. And sex, too. Dean imagines for a split second Sam being someone he was allowed to touch like that. He imagines being someone Sam wanted to touch back. And he's hard inside of five seconds.

Oh.

Dean blinks, and the vision of Sam is gone. He ignores his hard-on. He gets it now. What Dr. F meant. Dean can love Sam. But he can never have that with him. Because he's Dean's brother. And either Dean's a moron or he's just slow, because Dean didn't even realize that the way he felt veered quite so close to forbidden territory.

He sits up, feeling mildly ill. So he's a little bit overly into his brother. He's not delusional. He knows that's not an option. But he's starting to think that Dr. F might be right. He's got so much love tied up in Sam, but he's never going to be able to have _that_ with him. If he meets someone else to love, to have a sexual relationship with, that doesn't change his love for Sam. And it would be a damn sight healthier than only feeling whole when his brother's there.

He pushes up out of bed, ready to start the day. Ready to acknowledge that he's lonely, that he can't depend on Sam to make him whole. That as much as he feels for Sam, about Sam, he's got to keep that locked down. Because protecting Sam is why Dean was born, even if he has to protect Sam from Dean himself.

Three weeks later he meets Ezekiel. 

Lately, Dean hasn't been working the front on the house unless one of his regular employees calls out sick or they're really slammed, but today it's the opposite. They've been super slow today, a gorgeously sunny June Wednesday, so he'd sent Katie home early and told her he'd close.

Dean's working on the schedule for the next two weeks when the door to the shop jangles. He looks up and sees a tall, well-built guy in jeans and motorcycle boots and jacket looking around the shop curiously. Dean watches him, trying to figure him out. They get all kinds, but he's still not the usual type of customer.

"Can I help you?"

The man swivels his head to Dean, smiles. "I'm looking for some pie."

He's got a nice smile. Dean can make out the hint of a dimple under his dark blond scruff. Dean smiles back. "You've come to the right place." He sweeps his arms out to the the refrigerated cases where no less than fifteen types of pie are on immaculate display.

"So it seems." The man walks over, and Dean spares a second to check him out. His right ear is pierced with a small diamond stud in it. Not that that means anything. Benny had once explained to him that before there were such things as LGBTQ pride tattoos and pins and gay dating websites that queer culture had a lot of subtle codes. A single right ear piercing on a guy could mean he was gay.

Dean rolls his eyes internally at himself. If only it were that easy.

"How am I supposed to choose? Everything looks amazing."

"Well, are you a chocolate man?"

"I like dark chocolate."

"Then you can't go wrong with the brownie pie. It's made with cocoa powder and studded with chunks of bittersweet. The crust is ground chocolate cookies from my own recipe."

"This is your place?" the man asks with interest.

"Dean Winchester, at your service."

"Nice to meet you, Dean. I'm Ezekiel."

"Ezekiel Saw the Wheel, " Dean recites, vaguely remembering his mother singing the song to him long ago.

Ezekiel winces slightly. "My parents are hippies."

"And you're what—an easy rider?" Dean responds. He's a little surprised at himself. He doesn't have trouble talking to customers as a rule, but this is running over into flirting. He waits for his usual sense of dread to take over, but none comes. All that happens is Ezekiel laughs. It looks good on him. 

"Something like that. Is it that obvious I ride a bike?"

Dean shrugs. "Just your boots and your jacket."

"You ride?"

"Nah." Dean had always kind of wanted to try, but it always seemed too reckless when there was Sam to think of. "Maybe someday."

"You'll love it," Ezekiel promises.

"That's what I'm worried about," Dean admits.

Ezekiel opens his mouth and Dean's almost a hundred percent sure it's going to be some version of an invitation. He blurts out, "So, the brownie pie?" He moves toward the case briskly.

Ezekiel nods. "Sure, I'll take a slice. And a whole peach pie."

"You got it." Dean boxes everything, and rings him up for the peach but decides to throw in the single slice. He doesn't think too hard about why.

"You don't have to do that," Ezekiel says when he sees the total.

"The peach is good, but it's not as good as the brownie. Want to make sure you're a satisfied customer."

"I'm sure I will be." Ezekiel smiles and Dean really hopes he'll come in again. "The peach isn't for me, anyway."

"Oh? Girlfriend?" Dean's going to be blushing for the rest of the day thinking about this interaction, but he can't seem to help it.

Ezekiel laughs for the second time. "No, no girlfriend. It's for my sister, Hannah. She wants a birthday pie instead of a birthday cake. And since I can't bake worth a damn, you're really saving the day."

"Well, happy birthday, Hannah."

"Thanks, Dean. See you around."

Dean's got a tiny smile on his face the rest of the day.

***

Sam comes home for a week before he starts his summer job. This time it's back on campus in Palo Alto, and Dean and he have already talked about Dean coming down to spend the 4th together. But Dean is conscious now of the strange yearning on his side of the equation, and is trying really hard to have realistic expectations for how much his little brother can be expected to want to spend with him, how healthy it is for Dean to hang out with him at all. 

At the same time, things between them have been good since Sam's trip out at Valentine's Day. Sam's been more open about his personal life, about how he and Balthazar mutually agreed not to keep in touch after their time in Rome together was over. About how he and Jess are going to be living near each other for their final year of undergrad, still just friends.

Dean's determined to be a brother to his brother, and not creepily obsessed with him. Sam deserves that. He doesn't deserve whatever part of Dean that covets Sam in every possible way. It's both a disturbing and a freeing realization. Dean can acknowledge that his all-consuming feelings aren't normal, and he can put them in a box. The way forward is to allow himself to try to feel that way about someone else. Even if he can't lie to himself that anyone on this planet could truly compete with Sam in his heart. But maybe someone could come close.

Ezekiel hasn't come back to the pie shop, but something about the simple act of flirting has put Dean in a good mood ever since.

Sam comments on it when they're lounging around the day after the gets back. He's still on Italy time, so he's up early and makes breakfast for Dean, who's not going to complain about not getting to sleep in on his one day off when it's his little brother making the bacon and coffee and even pancakes.

"You're chipper today," Sam says. "Things going good at the shop?"

"What?" Dean had been thinking about motorcycle boots and whiskery dimples.

Sam's own dimples show as he repeats the question. His teeth flash white. He's even tanner than he was at Valentine's Day, brown from spending his last few weeks in Europe sunning himself on the Almafi Coast with Balthazar and their cluster of expat friends.

"Yeah, things are good. We're on track to break even sooner than I expected. I haven't even had to dip into my savings since I finished the renovations."

"That's fantastic. You doing any advertising?"

Sam seems actually interested in the tiny little marketing campaign Dean's been putting together now that the first six months are almost under his belt and he can plan their expenditures better.

They spend the day driving up the coast, catching a late lunch, then winding their way back down, just talking, listening to music. Sam naps a little, jet lagged as he is, and Dean resists the urge to ruffle the hair that's almost as long as his collar in his sleep.

The week passes quickly. Dean takes a couple of afternoons off at the store, but he mostly still needs to be on hand, so Sam's on his own, sleeping and getting back on California time, doing laundry and sorting out the stuff he's going to take for his summer stay in Palo Alto. He stops into Winchester Pie Company every day to help Dean close up, never shy about grabbing a broom or wiping down counters. Dean teaches him how to disassemble and clean the espresso machine, and he only burns himself once, Dean dabbing a bit of burn gel on his index finger while Sam complains about not being a baby anymore. Dean pays him no mind, taking pleasure in the simple act of fixing his little brother up.

Wednesday, a little before close, Dean's getting ready to start counting out the register when the door jingles. He looks up, expecting Sam, but it's Ezekiel. He looks much the same, though his shirt under the heavy motorcycle jacket is gray instead of black. He's smiling and he looks good.

"Zeke," Dean says as if they're old friends. "How did Hannah like her birthday pie?"

"Are we on nickname basis already?" Ezekiel laughs. "All right. She loved it. Huge hit."

"And what about you, what's the verdict?"

"The brownie pie was as good as advertised. I ate it so fast I got brain freeze."

"That's ice cream," Dean says. "Well, you want a repeat or you want to try something new?"

"What about this chocolate cream pie?" Ezekiel leans over the case and Dean takes the opportunity to check out his exemplary ass.

"Oh," Dean puts his hand over his heart, "that's my absolute personal favorite, besides the apple. If you don't love it, I'm going to be crushed."

"That's a lot of pressure to put on something that's mostly whipped cream."

"Oh, it can take it, believe me." Dean winks, and sets about getting a slice into a to-go box.

"Wait, do I have time to eat it here? I don't know if it's going to make it home in my saddle bag."

"Sure thing." Dean slides the pie onto a compostable plate and grabs a fork from the jar. "That way I can watch your mind getting blown by how amazing it is."

"Challenge accepted," Ezekiel says. Dean feels his smile down to his toes.

Ezekiel's halfway through the slice and making gratifyingly orgasmic noises when the door opens again. This time it is Sam.

"Hey Sammy," Dean says easily.

"Hi. Sorry I'm late. There was a line at the bank."

"No worries. Hey, can you count out the drawer? I haven't gotten to it yet."

"Wait," Ezekiel says. "I haven't paid you for the pie."

"You can get me next time."

"Next time?"

"Or maybe you could give me a ride on your bike sometime? I was thinking I oughta try it out."

Ezekiel's smile takes on a speculative angle. "Yeah, we could work that out I think."

Dean's aware that Sam's watching the little interaction with a sharp gaze. "Uh, Zeke, this is my brother, Sam. Sam, this is Ezekiel."

Sam waves from behind the cash register. "Hi."

"Sam." Ezekiel nods. "Your brother is a pie genius."

"I know," Sam says with a faint smile, then opens the cash drawer with a ping and starts counting the change noisily.

Dean figures there's no point in continuing the conversation while Sam's making a racket, so he busies himself with other closing down tasks. Ezekiel finishes his pie quickly, drops off the plate in the compost receptacle—Sam's idea—and heads straight for Dean.

"So, if you want to take that ride, I'll be around Sunday."

Dean opens his mouth to answer, but Sam speaks first. "Dean's taking me to school on Sunday."

"Yeah, can I get a rain check?" Dean asks hopefully.

Ezekiel doesn't seem put out. "Sure." He glances over at Sam, the back to Dean. "You want to give me your number?"

Dean hesitates only for a brief moment. Giving this guy his number is different from flirting. He never gives guys his number. He finds himself looking at Sam, but he's studiously counting every last penny in the drawer. And he's leaving in a few days, and Ezekiel seems cool. Not obviously crazy or whacked out. And he's hot.

"Yeah." He waits for Zeke to get his phone out of his jacket pocket, then recites the number to his cell.

"See ya, Dean. Thanks for the pie."

Dean waves, watches him go. Maybe checks his ass out a little. He suddenly hopes very much that Zeke calls.

"You almost done?" Sam's voice breaks into his thoughts. "I'm craving a beer. You want to try that new brew pub on Main Street?"

Just like that, thoughts of the cute biker fly out of his head. Dean's having dinner with his brother, just the two of them plus beer and burgers. He can't ask for anything more than that.


	15. Tests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean becomes part of a new couple. Sam's about to graduate college.

Dean takes Sam back to school midday Sunday and helps him move his sparse belongings into a barely-furnished one-bedroom apartment near campus. They grab some take-out tacos and eat standing up in the tiny galley kitchen.

"Guess I should get a couple of chairs," Sam says wryly, salsa juice running down the side of his arm. Dean glances away when Sam goes to lick it off. He looks around the place instead. It's not great, but it's cheap and Sam's only here until campus housing opens back up in the fall. Dean wonders if Sam ever has trouble sleeping alone.

"I better get back." He crumbles his food wrappers and drains the rest of his soda.

Sam nods, but says, "You could stick around, if you want. We could go get a beer down the street or something."

It's not like Dean wants to leave his brother to go back to his quiet apartment and breathe into the darkness alone. But that's their life now. Sam's here and Dean's there, and except for a few stolen days a year, that's probably how it's always going to be. 

"Nah, I gotta work in the morning. I'll see you in a couple of weeks anyway. For the Fourth, right?"

"Right." Sam seem to perk up at the reminder of their holiday plans, and then he's moving toward Dean and it takes Dean a second to realize that he's about to give him a hug. Dean fits inside Sam's arms like he was made for it, but he manages to avoid making it awkward and just squeezes back hard, once, then lets go.

"Be good, Sammy."

"You, too, Dean."

By the time Dean pulls back into his parking spot at his building, he's itchy with the need to erase the buzz he's still feeling from Sam's hug. Since realizing that his wires have been crossed more badly than he even knew, he's been second guessing every little interaction with Sam. He craves the contact, and hates himself for it. He's got to get over this—or at the very least, needs a distraction. He wishes he had Ezekiel's number, but he'd only given out his digits, not gotten any in return. Damn. He considers going to bingo night, but it's not the same since he and Aaron split. He's about to give up on the pretense of having a social life and just head in for leftovers and television, when the phone rings with a number he doesn't recognize.

"Dean? It's Ezekiel."

"Hey, Zeke," Dean lets his voice warm up. "What's happening?"

"It's too late for that ride now," Ezekiel says, "but I thought if you were back we could get a quick drink."

"Just pulled in. Where do you want to meet?"

Ezekiel names a roadhouse Dean's seen a couple times off the 1, but never been to.

"I'll see you there."

That night Dean learns Ezekiel likes stouts, is a special-ed teacher at the high school in the next town over, and his sister goes to San Francisco State. Dean also learns that Ezekiel's a good kisser when he presses Dean lightly against the driver's door of the Mustang in the roadhouse parking lot. He tastes good, like the yeasty stout, and he's not too aggressive but not too soft. Just right, like the three bears.

Dean sleeps like a rock that night, and smiles all day at work Monday. That Sunday they do go for that ride, Dean wearing a borrowed helmet and grinning like a loon while the landscape speeds by, his arms firmly around Zeke's waist. They stop at a little diner for lunch, then find a hiking path and go just far enough into the woods that they can make out without being seen by families on their weekend jaunts. Dean's good with making out, and Ezekiel doesn't press for more. They hold hands on the way back down the trail. Dean feels butterflies. He's twenty six, but being with Zeke makes him feel like a teenager in a good way, young and free.

Dean closes the shop on Independence Day, giving his employees a paid day off. He drives to spend the day with Sam in Palo Alto, watching the little local parade, eating hot dogs, and drinking beer. He stays long enough for them to catch the fireworks that the city shoots off, propped side by side on the hood of the Mustang. Dean doesn't mention Zeke and he doesn't ask if Sam's seen Jess. Other than feeling vaguely guilty that he's keeping something from Sam, they have a nice time. Dean drive Sam back home. 

"It's getting late. You want to crash at my place?"

Dean's confused. Sam's surely not suggesting they share Sam's dinky double bed? He doesn't even have a couch. "Nah, I'll head home."

Sam looks like he wants to say something else, but in the end just says, "Drive safe, Dean."

"Be good, Sammy."

The rest of July falls into a pattern. Dean and Zeke hang out on Dean's day off, sometimes going for a ride, sometimes a beer, or a meal. Always in public, so the opportunities for kissing or anything else are limited. Dean's fine with that, but he actually wouldn't mind moving a little faster. He supposes he should just man up and ask Ezekiel out for a real date and then see where the night goes.

He calls Ezekiel on a Tuesday, to see if he's free Friday night. "I thought we could get some dinner. Maybe a movie?"

"Dinner and a movie? You are so old school, Dean Winchester."

"Yeah, well, I'd cook for you instead, but I'm usually fried by Friday."

"Sounds good."

"You want me to pick you up?"

Zeke chuckles warmly. "So traditional. Sure. I'm at 144 Elm Circle."

Dean tries to place the street. He has a vague impression of a residential neighborhood near the big box stores. "See you Friday."

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I was just thinking. Since we're going on an old school date, and I have a feeling I'm going to be strongly tempted to ask you in after, I might as well tell you I don't sleep with anyone until we share test results. Have you been tested recently?"

Dean's silent for a good five seconds while it sinks in exactly what Zeke's asking him. "Oh. No. But I can get tested?" He tips the end of the sentence up like a question.

"Yeah, do that."

"Okay. Uh, bye."

"Bye, Dean."

Dean stares at the phone for a while after ending the call. Shit. He's never been screened. He's seen the flyers at Denim reminding patrons to know their status. But since he's only ever been with Aaron and they used a condom every time, he never counted himself as someone who needed to. On the other hand, Aaron was certainly fucking around with other guys while they were together and you never know. Can he get tested and get the results back by Friday?

The whole thing makes him a little nervous, but then again, it's kind of a fucked-up gay rite of passage, right? And besides, this confirms that Zeke actually wants to have sex with him. And since Dean's coming up on a year-long dry spell, he'd jump through more hoops than a little blood draw to take things to the next level.

He makes an appointment at the clinic he got stitches at the night he got sliced by a chef's knife at work a while back. They tell him the results could take up to a week, so he thanks them and hopes for the best. 

Friday morning he's in Dr. F's office as usual. Dr. F has been really supportive of Dean dating Zeke, so Dean doesn't feel too weird about telling him about Ezekiel asking him to get tested.

"Sounds like he's careful, and cares enough about you to make sure you're both safe."

"Yeah, he's a good guy."

"And you're okay with transitioning your relationship into a more sexual direction?"

Dean knows what the doc's asking. "I think so. I mean, I'm attracted to him, and he's treated me good so far. And I've got to say it's been really nice to have someone to hang out with this summer. He's getting me into motorcycles, too. I'm studying up to get my license."

"I trust you'll be extremely careful." Dr. F sounds more like a stern, worried father than a therapist right now.

"Yeah, like Sam wouldn't kill me if I got into a motorcycle accident."

"Does Sam know about Ezekiel?"

Dean shrugs. "Sort of. He was there the first time I gave him my number, but we haven't really talked about it since."

Dr. F does that eyebrow lifting thing. Dean huffs. "Fine. I'll tell him the next time we talk."

Dean usually puts his cell phone on silent when he's with Dr. F, but his phone rings loudly in the small room. He checks the number. "I gotta take this."

Dr. F nods, starts writing on his legal pad. Dean answers the phone, listens to the woman from the clinic. "Cool, can I swing by later for a copy? Awesome, thanks." He ends the call, shoves his phone back in his pants pocket. "Clean bill of health, Doc."

Dr. F's relieved grin looks like how Dean feels. "Go get him, tiger."

***

By Christmas, Dean and Zeke are an official couple. They call each other their boyfriend and everything. Dean's got a toothbrush and his own motorcycle helmet at Ezekiel's tidy little house. Zeke's got a drawer in Dean's dresser and Dean's taken to stocking Zeke's preferred brand of coffee.

Dean had it in the back of his mind that he'd try to get out to Bobby's again for Christmas, like Sam suggested they do all the way back in February, but last Christmas he didn't have the shop and this year he does. He doesn't trust anyone else to watch the shop while he's gone, plus they have a lot of preorders for the holiday week and he can't afford to close up entirely. 

Bobby understands when Dean calls him guiltily a few weeks before Christmas. "You got a store to run. Why don't I just consult my calendar and find a time I can head out west? 'Bout time I try some of your pie for myself."

"We'd love that, Bobby," Dean says, speaking for both him and Sam.

Once Sam's done with finals he comes up and pitches in at the store during the last of the holiday rush. By closing on Christmas Eve, Dean's practically asleep on his feet. He'd been first one in and last one out every day for two weeks, and he's exhausted. Sam helps him do a final check, then pushes him into the passenger side of the Mustang, fishing the keys out of Dean's jacket himself.

"Dude, I can drive." Dean's seeing double, but he could drive home with his eyes closed.

"I know you can," Sam says with something like fondness in his voice. The next thing Dean knows, he's waking up to Sam easing him out of the car. He doesn't need to, but it feels kind of good to lean on Sam the entire walk up to their place.

Zeke's spending the holiday with his parents and sister, and Dean's kind of glad to have Sam to himself for Christmas Day. They sleep in, then gorge themselves on an elaborate breakfast, which they eat side by side on the pull out bed so they can get their _Die Hard_ marathon on. They exchange presents eventually. Sam's face lights up at the fancy new edition of the Lord of the Rings trilogy Dean ordered special, plus a new blue flannel shirt that Dean suspects is going to look nice against Sam's skin. 

Dean's speechless when he opens the big box Sam fishes out from under Dean's bed—hidden in plain sight. It's a motorcycle jacket, padded but sleek, and it fits Dean perfectly.

Dean runs his hand over the soft, tough material. "Are you serious?"

Sam's grinning. "I figured if you were going to be an idiot and ride the stupid things, you might as well be as protected as possible."

"Thanks, Sam." They had a couple of arguments once Dean had finally told Sam that he was riding Zeke's bike and in the process of getting his license. Dean's been setting aside a little money every month, hoping to save up enough to get his own bike by summer. "When I get my own bike, I'm totally taking you for a ride and you can see how much fun it is. You'll see why I'm so into it."

"Are you sure you're not just into it because your boyfriend's into it?" Sam's teasing, but his eyebrows arch.

"That's only like five percent," Dean allows. "Whatever. I seem to remember you going through a sailing phase that summer you lived with Jess. You hate boats!"

"Oh yeah." Sam makes a rueful face. "Don't remind me. I almost bought boat shoes."

"How is Jess, anyway?"

Sam smiles. "She's good. We're taking a couple of classes together next semester."

"And that's not weird?"

"Why, because we're exes?"

"Yeah."

"I think…I think we both realized we're better as friends." Sam looks down, then back up through the fringe of his bangs, his smile turning slightly embarrassed. "Though to be perfectly honest, we hook up sometimes, too."

"Sammy, you dog." Dean's not sure he wants to know that Sam and Jess are friends with benefits, but he supposes it makes sense. He wants to ask his brother if he's seeing anyone else. He hasn't said and Dean hasn't asked. But he can't imagine people not hitting on Sam constantly. He probably has his pick of ladies—and guys—if he wants them. 

"You and Aaron ever hang out?" The question seems a little out of left field, but maybe Dean started it by asking about Jess.

Dean thinks. He'd hoped he and Aaron would try to stay friends, but they'd just continued to drift apart. He's a little sad about it, but it's hard to remember why they were together in the first place, except that it was easy and convenient and about all Dean could handle at the time. 

Things feel different with Ezekiel. He's a few years older than Dean, and he has a grown-up job and a good relationships with his family, who Dean's met and liked. Zeke's kid sister, Hannah, kind of reminds him of Sam, smart and quick and excited about studying criminology at college.

"Nah. But it's fine. Things are good with Zeke, so."

"Right." Sam looks down again. "You guys seem good together."

"I thought the three of us could maybe go to the beach tomorrow. Or for a hike?"

"Maybe. I've got some reading to do."

"Come on, you can do that when the shop opens back up. I only get these two days off."

Sam's quiet for a minute but finally says, "Yeah, okay, sure thing."

Dean gets the sense that Sam doesn't especially like Ezekiel, which, besides the motorcycle thing, Dean doesn't get at all. The guy is a freaking teacher—that's like Sam's favorite profession. But he's too tired to figure it out right now. "You hungry? I can make that pork tenderloin, some mashed potatoes?"

"Sounds like the perfect Christmas dinner. I'll help."

***

In January, Dean passes his motorcycle license test. Sam comes up for his birthday and they take one of their drives up north, stopping for stargazing on the way back. It's Dean's favorite birthday in a long time. Zeke's a little bummed that he has to wait to take Dean out, but he understands. Sam takes the LSAT and scores 170. He hasn't told Dean where he's applying to law school, but Dean's not holding his breath that it'll be anywhere close by.

***

In February, Bobby comes out for a few days, gets the tour of Winchester Pie Company, and practically eats Dean out of his profits that week. Sam comes up for a day and Dean barbecues steaks and brats for the three of them on his charcoal grill out in their parking spot. They drink warm beer on an unseasonably warm February day, Bobby complaining about everything with reassuring constancy. Sam laughs a lot, and Dean takes quiet pleasure in each flash of his dimples. After Sam heads back to school, Dean gets Zeke to swing by and meet Bobby, who shakes his hand and is as polite as he knows how. Zeke's not rattled. He gets on Bobby's good side by asking him astute questions about the Chevy restoration project Bobby's been working on back at home. Dean's relieved that Zeke seems to like the only other family he and Sam can count. When Bobby leaves, Dean swallows back tears, but the old man isn't shy about hauling him in for a bone-crushing hug. "I'm proud of you, Dean Winchester," he whispers fiercely before letting go and driving away. Dean misses him after he's gone.

***

In March, Ezekiel tells Dean he loves him. Dean takes a beat, then says it back. It only feels a little bit wrong to say it to someone who's not Sam.

***

In April, the pie shop gets featured on a Food Network show and business goes up fifteen percent overnight. Dean hires a general manager, Sarah, so he doesn't have to open and close as much. He starts to think the success of the Winchester Pie Company isn't just a fluke.

***

In May, Sam turns twenty-three. He's slammed getting ready for his last finals week of his last semester as an undergrad, so Dean just wishes him a gruff happy birthday over the phone and promises they'll do something to celebrate after graduation, mere weeks away now. The next weekend, Dean and Zeke go to the bike dealer together. He buys a used, low-mileage Indian Chief motorcycle that was originally built only a hundred-odd miles away in Gilroy, California. The Mustang will always be his first love, but the bike is quick and light and when he's wearing the jacket Sam got him and flying up the coast, Dean feels free. 

He's coming back from a short ride after work when his phone rings with an unknown number with a San Francisco area code.

"Yeah?"

"Is this Dean?"

"Speaking."

"Hi, this is Brady, Sam's friend. We met a couple of times?"

Dean's already thinking worst case scenario. Sam's hurt, or worse. How fast can he get to Palo Alto? "What's wrong?"

"Sam's okay, sort of. It's Jessica. She—she's dead. And Sam's kind of spiraling here and he asked me to call you. You think you could come down?"

"I'll be there in an hour."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really torn about killing Jess in this fic, but I have to do it. She deserves better, though. <3


	16. Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean helps Sam as he grieves for Jess.

Dean tears upstairs, packs a bag with a change of clothes, his phone charger. He's back at the Mustang in five minutes. He's halfway to Palo Alto, pushing to go as fast as he can between CHP speed traps and the end of rush hour traffic before he realizes he's still wearing his motorcycle jacket. He unzips it. The cool air rushing in makes him feel marginally less like throwing up. Jessica. Dead. 

He remembers the cute-as-a-button freshman who'd swept Sam off his feet, charmed Dean against his initial reluctance. He knows how much Sam loved her, even if they weren't together any longer. He wonders if Sam had harbored hopes of them getting back together for real one day. He wonders how she died. And he wonders in what shape he's going to find Sam. Because as much as he feels bad for the loss of the woman who had her whole life ahead of her, he mostly only cares about how this is going to affect Sam. Graduation is in less than two weeks. He recently accepted a spot at UCLA Law in the fall. Not as bad as it could have been, but still a solid eight hour drive from Petaluma.

Whatever, Dean can think about all that later. Right now, his brother needs him.

Sam's curled up in a ball on his bed in his room in senior housing. Half his stuff is already packed in anticipation of graduation. Dean's already gotten coverage at the pie shop for graduation weekend, got the motel room booked for the night before. He's not missing his baby brother's college graduation ceremony. No fucking way. He's too proud of Sam not to make a big deal out of being the first one in their family to graduate college, that he knows of, anyway.

Dean sinks down on the bed next to him, puts his hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam curls further inward at his touch, like the sea anemones they find sometimes in the tide pools at the beach.

"Hey, kiddo." He sinks into soft big brother mode. "What do you need? Have you eaten?"

Sam doesn't answer. Dean looks up at Brady, who'd let him in and who's hovering in the doorway. Brady shrugs. He'd said that the accident happened yesterday, but they'd only found out today when Jessica's older sister had called Sam to tell him. Brady didn't know the details, just that Jessica and her parents, too, were gone, like dust in the wind.

Dean gets up, whispers to Brady. "What's the best Chinese food that delivers?"

"Sam always orders from Golden Moon."

"Okay, thanks. I've got it from here."

"If you're sure."

Dean's not sure of anything, but he knows Sam doesn't want Brady there any longer. "I've got your number if we need anything."

He closes and locks the door behind Brady, gets on the phone and orders his and Sam's regular assortment from the Chinese place. Then he calls the pie shop's new manager, Sarah, and asks her to open for him tomorrow. Sam's room doesn't have a full bathroom, there's a shower room down the hall, but it does have a little sink, so he fills a glass with water from the tap, takes off his jacket and boots. He's in stocking feet, jeans, and the gray Winchester Pie Company tee he wore to work today. He sits next to Sam again, puts his arm around him, helps him to sit up.

Sam's eyes are red, but he's not crying. He takes the glass Dean offers him and swallows mechanically. Dean doesn't say anything, just sits, knee to knee, taking the glass once Sam's drained it. The Chinese food gets there fast, and Dean tips the guy extra to bring it all the way up to the door instead of having to come down to the building's entrance.

The smell of onions and spices immediately takes over the small space. There's chopsticks and forks in the bag, too, so Dean parcels out two portions of everything and sticks a fork in each, coming back over the bed. Sam takes his plate, but doesn't eat.

Dean pushes his rice around the plate, then says, "Remember the Chinese food we got that time in Petaluma, you were about thirteen, and we'd lost our first apartment and were living out of the car. We'd been eating PB and J for days, but I'd gotten an extra large tip at work, so I bought Chinese food. Take out from that place by the railroad tracks. God, that tasted so good, even though it stank up the Mustang for a while. Worth it."

Sam doesn't say anything back, but he take a bite of fried rice, so Dean counts that as a win. He takes a bite for every one that Sam does. "I think we had Chinese the day you got your Stanford acceptance letter, too." That was a good, horrible day. The day Dean knew that Sam was going on to bigger and better things than Dean could ever offer him.

"Actually, that was Thai." They're the first words Sam's spoken since Dean got there. Figures he'd utter them in order to correct Dean's mistake. But Dean's so relieved he doesn't care.

"That's right. Thai noodles. I was so proud of you."

"You were?"

"'Course, Sam. I always am."

Sam loses it, then. He sets down his half-eaten plate and starts to cry. He puts his forehead on Dean's shoulder and Dean puts his arms around his back, rubbing soothing circles and letting Sam soak through the cotton of his shirt with his tears.

"She's just gone, Dean." Sam hiccups and Dean wonders if there's a box of kleenex someplace. He resigns himself to Sam using him as a tissue and doesn't move. "I saw her on Monday, in our social justice final. We were making plans for grad week. And she told me her parents were taking her sailing for her mom's birthday yesterday. I guess there was a fire on the boat, that's what her sister said. An explosion of some kind. The three of them, gone, just like that. I never thought—I mean, I've been on that boat myself. I never—"

"I know. I know," Dean whispers, rubbing Sam's back again through the thin cotton of his Stanford t-shirt he's seen him in a million times. "I'm so sorry, Sam."

"She was so…good, you know? She wanted to become a public defender and help people. And she was so smart, way smarter than me. She knew about—" Sam stops, takes a shuddering breath. "She really knew me, and she stayed my friend."

"Jess was good people," Dean says, because what else can he say. He can't imagine someone so young, so vital, being there one minute, gone the next. But then again, he can. Because that's how it was with Mom. Beautiful, loving, the center of John and Dean and Sam's world one moment, gone the next, one dark night after a crazy person with a gun ruined four lives in the process.

Dean holds Sam tighter. No. Not four lives. Maybe three. Maybe two. Dean's life isn't so bad, and Sam, Sam's life is worth something. He's sad now, but he's so strong. He'll recover, he'll go to law school. He'll do everything and anything he puts his mind to. And even if Dean's truly beyond repair, feeling as he does about his baby brother, more than he should, more than he wants to, more than he can control, at least he's done something right. Because Sam isn't ruined. Dean hasn't managed to ruin him. And he's not going to start now.

***

Dean stays for two nights. Sarah calls him twice a day and has everything under control. The first night, he dozes in Sam's desk chair while Sam sprawls out on his bed. Neither of them sleeps very well, but the next day it doesn't matter. Sam says his classes are basically over, so he calls in sick to work, and Dean sits by his side when he calls Jess's sister to offer his condolences and get the info on the funeral, which will be in a week at the cemetery in Marin near the family house.

That night, Sam seems better, still sad, but functional. He showers, at least, and they leave his room to get Mexican for dinner. Ezekiel calls while they're waiting for their combination plates. Dean takes the call outside, watching Sam toy with the straw in his iced tea through the tinted plate glass window of the restaurant.

He tells Zeke the bare bones of the story, that he's helping Sam and he'll be home soon, but he's not sure what's going to happen next. Zeke is understanding, tells Dean to call him when he gets back to Petaluma. "Sure. Of course."

"Tell Sam I'm so sorry," Zeke says. "Love you."

Dean's still surprised at how casually his boyfriend can say that. He says it all the time, at the end of phone conversations, when they're in bed, randomly when they're just hanging out watching a movie. Dean always takes a moment to respond. "Love you, too," he says, because he knows it's what you're supposed to say. Because he knows Zeke will be hurt if he doesn't say it. He supposes on some level he means it. Zeke's great, and their relationship has been way better than he could have hoped for. But there's still something missing. On days when Dean's perfectly honest with himself, it's because Zeke has the distinct disadvantage of not being Sam.

Dean leaves reluctantly on the third day after spending the night on a spare futon they borrowed from Brady, but he has to spell Sarah and make sure things are going okay at the shop. Sam's pale and his eyes are bloodshot, but he assures Dean he'll be okay. Dean hugs him, and promises him he'll meet him next week for the funeral. A few days after that is graduation. The funeral is bad enough—it seems like half the senior class has turned out for it and they cry enough tears to fill San Fransisco Bay. Sam's stoic, wearing a suit Dean didn't know he owned. Dean's dressed in his only pair of slacks and a blue button down shirt he'd bought for a job interview a lifetime ago. Zeke had offered to come with him, but Dean declined. He wouldn't feel right being there with Zeke, while Sam mourns his first love.

After the service, and the awfulness of seeing three fresh graves dug in a sunny, grassy cemetery, Dean waits with Sam until nearly everyone else is gone. "You wanna get going?" he asks eventually. "I was going to go home tonight, but I can stay. Since graduation is only a couple of days away, I can see if Sarah's good if I just stay here until then."

Sam shakes himself. "What? Oh. No. No point in coming down for graduation. I don't know if I even want to go."

"Are you kidding? I know the timing's terrible, but you gotta go to your college graduation."

Sam turns, must see something in Dean's face. His shoulders sag. "Okay. Sure. Then I'm coming up to Petaluma. I can stay with you, right?"

"Of course." Dean's surprised, but not. Before, Sam had planned to come up for a few days, then head south almost immediately to look for an apartment and a part time job in advance of starting law school. But maybe he needs a little time. Dean's happy for any extra time with Sam, even under these circumstances.

"Thanks, Dean."

He waves away the thanks, takes Sam back to Palo Alto, make sure he seems stable enough to be left alone. He drives back the way he came, tired and sad. The funeral had been rough. He's aching for Sam, but he's going to miss Jess, too, in a way. She wouldn't have been such a bad sister-in-law, if things had gone down that path. She seemed to always understand that Dean and Sam were close, never seemed to mind it. She was a good kid. And Sam, no matter what he says, isn't okay.

Graduation is shadowed by the events of the past two weeks, but Dean still hollers and whistles when Sam's name is called, trying to make up for being the only person besides his college friends who's standing up to cheer for him. Sam looks stupidly adorable in the shapeless robe, the silly hat. He's earned all the pomp and circumstance they can throw at him. Dean's sure there must be parties planned, but Sam doesn't seem to care. He just says goodbye to a few friends, shakes the hand of a few professor-types, and then they're loading up the Mustang and leaving Palo Alto in the rear view mirror. Sam doesn't look back.

That night, after a brief argument, Sam takes the sofa bed and Dean settles in his room. He hears Sam take a shower, brush his teeth. He goes out, takes his turn in the bathroom. The next day is Sunday, and the shop is closed, but he's missed so much work over the past couple of weeks he's got to go in and do some paperwork, billing, the schedule. Sam's barely spoken three words since they got back. 

Sunday night after a satisfyingly productive day, and a less satisfying evening trying to get Sam to eat something, Dean's lying in bed, wondering if he needs to do more. Every fiber in his being wants to go to Sam, to cradle him in his arms, to try to transfer some of the enormous quantity of love filling Dean up to his brother, to soothe some of his hurt. But that would just be weird. Dean would never know if he was doing it for Sam, or for him. So he stares sightless at the ceiling for a long time, until there's a creak on the floorboards. Sam's there, silhouetted in the doorway, shoulders hunched.

"What is it?" Dean asks softly.

"I can't sleep." Sam's whispering. There's no reason for it. No one else can hear them. There's no one else around.

Dean acts without thinking. He pats the space in the bed next to him, scoots as far over as he can. "Come here."

Sam doesn't hesitate, just folds himself into the space Dean's left for him, head on the pillow, thin summer-weight comforter pulled up over his shoulders. They're six inches apart. Dean's suddenly wide awake, suddenly very aware of his body, his hands, the noises he makes when he shifts and rolls and tries to get comfortable in his reduced real estate. But when he looks over at Sam, his eyes are closed. He listens. Sam's breathing is regular, even. And Dean remembers all the nights they shared a room, if not a bed, and how the even sound of Sam's breaths were the best lullaby he could ask for. He's asleep within a minute, Sam's breath in his ears like the tide coming in.

In the morning, Sam's still there. Dean opens his eyes and Sam's sacked out, his hair falling over his eyes, a little drool at the corner of his mouth. Dean smiles. He loves seeing Sam like this, all soft and mussed up. He's glad Sam's been able to sleep. Dean slept soundly, the stress of the past weeks catching up with him, and finally able to relax knowing Sam was just an arm's length away. But he can't stay in bed watching his brother sleep all day. He rolls out the other side of the bed, taking care to be as quiet as possible as he grabs clothes and shoes, but Sam's dead to the world. Dean eyes the sofa bed and wonders if he should just fold it back up, or if they need it as an out. But he'll happily share with Sam every night if that's what Sam needs.

It doesn't occur to him until later that his boyfriend might think it's weird that Dean's sharing a bed with his twenty-three-year-old, six-foot-four brother, but that's just what they keep doing. Sam's still quiet, but he doesn't have bloodshot eyes anymore. Dean goes back to regular hours at the shop, which is humming along. He's had to hire another baker to keep up with demand from area restaurants who've contracted him for big orders through the summer months. 

When he can't put it off any longer, goes over to Ezekiel's on night after work for dinner and only feels marginally guilty at leaving Sam to fend for himself for a night. Zeke's really happy to see him, hugs him tightly in greeting, and it feels really good to Dean to be able to touch someone anywhere, everywhere he wants. He's allowed to touch his boyfriend, to kiss him and straddle him on the couch and get them both off, quick and messy, breathlessly. Zeke kisses him through his orgasm, and teases him about not being able to wait until after dinner, but he seems pleased, cheeks pinked. It's been a while for them, since before Dean got the news about Jess. They split a pizza and catch up on each others' news. When Dean gets up to leave around ten o'clock, Ezekiel frowns. "You don't want to stay over?"

"We both have to work tomorrow," Dean says. "And I've got Sam."

"Sam. Right." Ezekiel's voice is flat. "You know that he's an adult, right?"

Dean stiffens. "Yeah, and he's having a hard time."

"I know." Zeke sighs. "I just wish you'd let me take care of you sometimes, the way you take care of Sam."

Dean feels like a shit. Ezekiel has been nothing but good to him, and yet…Dean knows he feels more for Dean than Dean's capable of feeling back. And maybe Dean should just end things before he ends up hurting him. Maybe that was inevitable all along. He thinks about Sam, hurting, letting Dean take care of him, baby him a little, sleeping in Dean's bed. It's not normal. But it's them. And he was a fool to ever think that the way he feels about Sam could be tamped down or papered over by dating a nice, normal guy. Dean doesn't deserve Ezekiel. Or at least, Ezekiel deserves a lot better than Dean's able to give.

Call him a coward, but breaking up with Ezekiel requires way more energy than Dean can dredge up at the moment. It'll have to keep.

***

Things go on like that for a few days. Dean's got so much work to catch up that he actually cancels his Friday appointment with Dr. F, something he's only done a handful of times in the almost four years he's been seeing him. He pushes the situation with Zeke to the back of his mind and makes sure Sam's fed and sleeping and getting fresh air and not spending all of his time on his computer in the dark of the apartment all day while Dean's putting in twelve hour days getting ready for the high school graduation orders, which will be followed by the town's art festival where they'll have a booth, and Fourth of July chasing at the festival's heels.

It's actually not until the following week, when Dean stays late at the shop again, that he realizes Sam hasn't said a word about going down to L.A. to look for an apartment. He hasn't said a word about law school. He's eating and drinking and going through the motions, but Dean has to remind him to shave, and do laundry, and sometimes when he gets home at the end of the day Sam's just sitting in the apartment with no lights on, staring at nothing.

He rushes through the rest of the schedule, tacks it to the board in the kitchen, locks up. He's been taking his bike to work almost every day so that Sam can use the Mustang, but Sam never seems to want to go anywhere. He stops to pick up a rotisserie chicken and some veggies at the store. He's home before dark, but the apartment is still dim when he walks in. Sam's not immediately obviously there. Dean sets the food down on the kitchen counter. "Sammy?"

Silence answers him. He doesn't like the sound of that silence. His mind goes in twenty directions at once, each possible option worse than the next. He moves through the dark living room, peers into the bedroom. Sam's lying there in the gloom, with his head pillowed on an arm, his other hand on his chest, trapping an open book there. _The Hobbit._ He's wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Barefoot. Asleep.

The sight of him does something to Dean's insides. An unseen hand pulls them out, tangles them up, and puts them back all wrong. Because Dean wants nothing more than to walk over to the bed, to lower himself onto his brother's long, lean body. He wants to gently take the book out of his hand, set it aside, bury his nose in Sam's neck, breathe him in, brush his mouth over Sam's mouth. To wake him with a kiss, like Sleeping Beauty. Maybe Sam would like being woken like that, maybe he'd kiss Dean back, harder, and maybe the sweet kiss would turn dirty and hot and suddenly they'd both be wide awake, straining toward each other, battling to remove clothes, to rub skin against skin, to coax groans and moans out of each other, to touch and taste until they've both spent and sighed. And Dean would kiss his brother once again, for good measure, before getting up to make them dinner, and Sam would come into the kitchen with his book and read Dean the dragon scenes while he cooks, because he knows those are Dean's favorite.

It's wrong to think about Sam like this. Especially when Sam's grieving. Especially when Dean's got a boyfriend who doesn't deserve to be with someone who has twisted thoughts like this. It's wrong, period. And it's the only thing that Dean wants. He's used to not getting what he wants, but this is right up there with wanting the moon. He feels a little nauseous, watching Sammy sleep, contemplating how far he's let his thinking go this time.

It's got to stop.

Sam stirs, and Dean straightens up. "Dinnertime, kiddo."

"Not hungry." Sam's voice is a rasp. He probably hasn't spoken all day. 

Dean's had it. He flips on the overhead light, and the room gets daytime bright. Sam squints bitchily, somehow. "You're getting up, you're coming in to help me make dinner. You're going to eat it. And then we're going to figure out what the hell we're going to do next. Because this can't go on, Sam. You have to think about the future. Law school starts soon. You need an apartment down there."

"I put in for a deferment from UCLA. I got the approval today." Sam delivers the news in a monotone, as if he's recounting what he didn't each for lunch.

"What?"

"I can't go right now. I just can't. They'll hold my place for a year from now, if I want it."

"Are you fucking kidding me, Sam? What about your plans? Your career?"

"Fuck that. I'm not even sure if I want to be a lawyer. I just came up with that because it seemed like something you'd be proud of me for."

Dean feels that like to a punch to the gut. "But I—I thought that's what you wanted."

"I don't know. Sometimes it is. Sometimes I think if I have to spend one more minute listening to some middle aged white guy talk about something that happened two hundred years ago, I'm going to scream."

That's the most Dean's heard Sam say in weeks. "Okay then. You'll defer. Get your shit together, and then we'll see."

"My shit is together," Sam mutters.

Dean laughs short and mean. "Oh yeah. You're picture perfect." He gestures around the—their—room. "This is not good man. You barely get dressed if I don't remind you. When was the last time you did laundry? At least if you're going to stick around Petaluma, think about getting a job. Give you something to do. Get you out of the apartment."

"You kicking me out?"

"Of course not. I'd rather have you here than bumming around the Bay or backpacking around Europe or some shit." The idea of Sam leaving makes Dean's spine turn to ice.

"Okay." Sam looks down at his clothes, wrinkles his nose. "You might have a point."

"Damn right I do." Dean decides to push his luck a little further. "And I think you should go see Dr. F. Just a couple of times until you're feeling a little better."

"Your therapist?"

"Hey, you started it. I'm converted, man. Therapy works." Dean leaves out the part where all the therapy in the world hasn't been able to rid him of the inappropriate layers of his love for Sam.

"If you really want me to."

"I really do."

"Fine."

"Fine." They stare at each other, and the tension bleeds out like a slow leak in a tire. "Now seriously, help me with dinner and I'll let you pick what we watch tonight. Except no foreign movies."

"Deal." Sam gets off the bed, stands at full height. Dean feels a hundred times better than he did when he first walked in. He's gotten Sam to agree to therapy, to think about the future. He hopes this is step one in getting Sam out of his Jessica-related depression. And if Sam really sticks around for a whole year—that's a year Dean will take, even if he's a selfish bastard for doing it. Sam pauses on their way to the kitchen, taps Dean on the shoulder. He stops and turns. 

"Thanks, Dean." Sam's smile is small, but real.

Dean's heart turns over and he thinks, _I love you_.

He clears his throat. "You're on green bean duty." And the moment's over.


	17. Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean makes a new friend and a decision about Zeke. Sam sees Dr. F.

Summer grinds on, hot and dry. The pie shop's busy and Sam starts working three or four shifts a week while he looks for something else. He's not a half-bad salesman, able to turn those big melting puppy dog eyes on customers of all ages and genders and they find themselves adding just another something to their original order. Dean likes having him there, where he can see with his own eyes that he's healthy and coping, even if the sight of him with the denim Winchester Pie Company apron cinched around his narrow waist is always slightly distracting.

Another distraction appears just after the Fourth of July. A new store opens up next door—Hero Comics and Gifts. The owner's some tech millionaire named Crowley who shows up on opening day, but otherwise leaves the running of the business to the general manger, Charlie. 

The Tuesday after Hero's grand opening, Sam's got his first appointment with Dr. F. Dean's keeping an eye on the clock, ready to push Sam out the door so he's not late, when Charlie walks in. Dean met her on the comic store's opening day, when he'd brought by a strawberry rhubarb pie as a sort of "welcome to the shopping plaza" gesture, and Charlie had given him a hug and the _Evil Dead 2_ poster he'd been eying in return.

"Heya, Charlie," he says. "Back for more strawberry rhubarb? I've also got an outrageous peach crumb."

She sighs. "Now I can't decide. Thanks a lot, Dean." She spots Sam taking off his apron and waves. "Hi, I'm Charlie."

"From the comics shop. Dean told me about you. I'm Sam." He sticks out his hand for Charlie to shake. It's stupid, but Dean tracks the interaction closely. Charlie seems cool, but he doesn't know her well enough to know if she'd be good for Sam or not, and he imagines it would be all too easy for the cute, talkative nerd to fall for his brainiac brother.

But she doesn't really seem to pay him any extra attention when she says, "Nice to meet you, Sam," and then goes over to look at the drinks menu. "What's a Moosemallow Hot Chocolate?"

Sam wrinkles his nose. "I thought you were going to change the name of that."

"No way," Dean says. "It's our house hot chocolate with a bit of marshmallow meringue on top. It's sugar-central." To Sam, he says, "Hey, I forgot to give you the keys to the Mustang." He digs them out of his jeans pocket, tosses them to Sam who grabs them out of the air one-handed. "See you back home for dinner?"

"Yeah, sounds good. Want me to pick up something?"

"Nah, I have that sausage from the farmer's market to use up. I'll make ravioli or something."

"Sounds great. Nice to meet you, Charlie."

He watches Sam leave. Dean's half worried about what Sam's state of mind will be when he finishes with Dr. F. He's relieved that he's going to talk to someone, since Dean's tried to help, but he's not exactly great at emotional conversations, especially between him and Sam. It takes him a minute to catch on to the fact that Charlie's talking to him.

"Sorry, say that again."

"I'll take a slice of the peach and an iced tea. Too hot for hot chocolate, I think."

"You got it."

"How long have you and Sam been together?"

Dean slams the door of the refrigerator case on his finger. "Damn it." He sticks the sore digit in his mouth, health regulations be damned.

"Oh, gosh, are you okay? Sorry, I just, I saw the pride flag sticker in your window. See mine?" She points to one of the knotted bracelets around her wrist; one is rainbow. Then she points to herself. "Big ole lez right here. In case you were wondering."

Dean's feeling a lot. In the time it takes to box up Charlie's slice of pie he identifies that he's happy Charlie felt comfortable telling him that, he's stoked to meet another cool-seeming queer person, since he's not exactly bursting with friends, and he's relieved that he doesn't have to worry about Charlie falling for Sam. "That's cool," he finally says, after what he knows it a really awfully long pause. "Big ole gay," he says, pointing to himself.

Charlie grins. "I knew it. You are way too hot to be straight."

Dean quirks his mouth. "You think I'm hot?"

"Richard Nixon would think you're hot."

"He's dead."

"Exactly. Even a dead man couldn't miss your undeniable hotness."

Dean mock scowls. "Now you're just making fun."

"Only a little bit. Thanks for the pie!" She slides a ten across the counter. "Keep the change, I gotta get back to the store."

"See ya, Charlie."

It's not till later that Dean realizes he'd never cleared Charlie up on the whole him and Sam being together thing. 

That night, eating sausage ravioli and watching some documentary that Sam had wanted to see on the geology of the Grand Canyon, which Dean has to admit is actually kind of interesting, Dean says, "So Charlie's a lesbian. Cool, huh?"

"Charlie from the comics shop? How did that come up?"

"Uh. Well." Dean feels his face start to heat up, but tries to fight off the blush. There's no reason to find her assumption anything other than funny. "She saw the pride sticker in the window that you got for me at the parade last year and kind of thought we were a couple. Hilarious, right?"

Sam doesn't say anything and Dean suddenly feels like every inappropriate thought he's ever had is plastered across his face. He coughs awkwardly. "So how was Dr. F?"

"Good, I guess." Sam turns up the volume on the television. "I kind of want to finish this."

"Sure." He gets it. Sam doesn't want to talk about therapy. Dean's fine with that as long as he keep seeing the doc until things are better.

That night when he comes out of the bathroom after taking his shower, Sam's making the pullout bed. Dean's heart sinks to his ankles. They've slept in the same bed every night for two weeks without talking about it.

"You sleeping out here?"

Sam straightens and looks at Dean. He looks a little…guilty? "Yeah. Sorry, I just realized I've been imposing on your space for too long."

"I don't mind," Dean says quietly.

"Yeah, well, um. You'll probably sleep better with more room."

Dean knows full well he won't, but he nods. "Sure, Sam."

***

Ezekiel comes into the shop the next afternoon. During the summer he teaches summer school, but the days are shorter than the regular school year. Dean hasn't seen much of him lately, at first because of Sam, then Ezekiel had gone with his parents and sister to visit some relatives back east over Fourth of July and only gotten back a couple of days ago.

When Zeke comes over to the counter, smiling the soft smile that had attracted Dean so much the first time they met, Dean realizes he hasn't missed him much. Shit. He can't put this off any longer.

"Hey, Dean."

"Hey, Zeke. You wanna come to the back for a minute? Gina, you got the front?" He rubs at his temples, feeling a headache coming on. He'd slept horribly the night before without Sam, then had missed his alarm and been late to work. Sam isn't on the schedule today, so the day's passed unusually slowly.

He takes off his apron, leads Zeke to the kitchen. There's no real privacy back here, but the bakers have already gone off shift for the day. The metro racks are all prepped for tomorrow's bakes, the stainless steel countertops immaculately clean. "How was your trip?"

"It was good, you know. Wish you could have come with me. I would have liked to introduce you to my cousins, my grandparents."

"Yeah?" Dean's a heel. He hasn't had to break up with anyone before, where the bald faced truth is just that he cares more about Sam and their life together, whatever form that takes, than about the person he's supposed to be in love with. God, it's so fucked up. But stringing Zeke along—Dean doesn't have the stomach for it.

"Hey, Zeke. Um. I think we should stop seeing each other. It's just not fair to you. I'm so busy at the shop, and you deserve to be with someone who can give you all their attention."

He forces himself to look at Zeke's face. His mouth is a hard line. "You're breaking up with me."

"Um. Yeah. I'm sorry. You've been nothing but great to me."

"This is about Sam, isn't it?"

Dean's so shocked he takes a physical step backward. "Well, he's staying in town for a while, and yeah, I feel like I need to support him right now."

"Look, I know that you two only have each other. And I know how it is to feel responsible for your kid sibling—I've got Hannah, you know. But he's not your responsibility," Ezekiel says impatiently.

His mother's voice. _Take Sam. Protect him._ Sam will never not be Dean's responsibility.

"Look, I'm not going to justify it to you. I just thought it was better if—"

"You thought it was better if you didn't have to choose between spending time with your brother and spending time with your boyfriend. I get it. You choose Sam."

Dean wishes he could tell Zeke that he's wrong. He says nothing. Finally, Ezekiel nods. "Okay. Maybe…it's for the best. I really…I tried, you know? At least I can say that I tried. I'm sorry you didn't want to try back."

Dean feels like a million kind of shit right now. "I'm sorry, too."

"Come by if you want your stuff. You can probably just toss mine. Unless you've already given it to Sam."

Dean's cheek flexes as he swallows back his anger, but he holds his tongue.

Zeke backs off when he sees he's not going to get a response out of Dean. "Whatever. Bye, Dean."

Sam comes by to pick Dean up at the end of the day. He's smiling, telling Dean that Dr. F has a friend at the Petaluma newspaper that's looking for a part-time researcher, and he's arranged an interview for the next day. He's wearing one of Dean's old t-shirts, it rides up over his hips and Dean hasn't seen him this excited in ages. With a stab of something like premonition, Dean realizes that he's just broken up with a decent guy because he couldn't compete with Sam for Dean's attention, but Sam's going to leave him one day, and Dean's going to be alone again. Sam will get this research job, he'll stop working at the pie shop, eventually he'll move out of their too-small apartment, get his own place, get a girlfriend or a boyfriend. Get married. Kids. Dog.

Sam is going to break Dean's heart.

And yet, Dean smiles as Sam describes his pre-interview with the friend of Dr. F. He'd make the same choices again a hundred times. He'll always want more for Sam than Dean can give. He'll always choose Sam over any other person, living or dead. And if he gets hurt, well, that's just the price he has to pay.

A little later, they're doing the dishes side by side at the sink. Dean tries for casual. "By the way, Zeke and I broke up."

Sam nearly drops a mug. "What? When?"

"Today."

"Why?"

Dean shrugs. "It had just run its course, I guess."

Sam tips his head to the side. "Huh. I'm sorry man, that sucks. I thought—"

"What?"

"—I know he was really into you."

"It's fine. It's okay. We didn't have a lot in common, you know? He got me into motorcycles, which is cool. But other than that…" Dean realizes it's only true because Dean didn't put much effort into his side of the relationship, or at least he hadn't since the day Brady called him to tell him Jess was dead.

"You have Dr. F soon, right?"

"Uh, yeah. Friday."

"Good. You guys can, uh, debrief."

Dean side-eyes Sam. "You going back to the doc?"

"Yeah, at least for a little while. You were right. I did need to talk to someone. Get my shit together."

"You know I didn't mean—"

"No, you were right. It's been…I think when Jess died," Sam sucks in a noisy breath but forges on, "I let myself fall apart because I knew you'd be there to pick up the pieces. But it's not fair to make you keep doing that. So I'm going to do better."

"You know I wanted to be there for you, right?"

"I know." Sam nods, looks down at his feet. "I just really miss her. Probably always will."

Dean doesn't know what to say. That's why he sucks at this. He wishes he could take Sam's pain away, just pull it out of him and take it on himself, if he had to. He'd do it, if it meant Sam wasn't hurting anymore.

"But that's okay," Sam goes on. "When you love someone and lose them, missing them just reminds you of the love."

Dean thinks about the people he's loved and lost. Their mom—he loved her but she's been gone so long he only misses her in an abstract sort of way. John, he supposes, in a way, was someone he loved and misses occasionally, when he thinks about the occasional fun times they had, watching wrestling, the pride in John's eyes when Dean made a difficult shot during target practice. He misses Jess, too, for Sam if not for himself.

And then there's Sam, who Dean misses fiercely when he's not near, but who Dean also misses when he's standing right there, because there will always be a part of Sam that's as distant from Dean as the North Pole.

"There you go being all philosophical, Sammy. You should have been a philosophy major, bitch."

Sam rolls his eyes but ruins it by cracking a smile, too. "Jerk. Serve you right if I went back to school to get my philosophy degree."

Dean groans, splashes him with some of the dish water. Sam laughs and splashes back. He could become a garbage collector, or a pharmacist, or the president of the United States and it wouldn't change how Dean feels about him. And even if Dean's heart gets broken one of these days, he's got Sam right here, right now, and that's enough.

***

"You look weird, Doc," Dean says Friday morning. "I brought you a slice of key lime, that oughta perk you up."

Dr. F's shoulders are unusually rounded today, but he straightens up at the mention of key lime. "Thanks, Dean. And I'm fine. It's been a busy week."

"Sam's case more than you can handle?"

Dr. F snaps his head up. "What? No. No."

"Relax, Doc, I was just kidding." He's never seen Dr. F so touchy. It's weird.

"Right. So, what's new with you?"

"Well," Dean hesitates, but figures he'll rip off the bandaid. "I broke up with Ezekiel a couple of days ago."

Dr. F doesn't look exactly surprised. "How did that come about?"

Dean tries to explain his thought process in such as way that doesn't make it sound like he broke up with his boyfriend because he would rather spend that time with his brother. But from the look on Dr. F's face, he's not sure how good of a job he's doing.

"I guess I just knew that he cared more for me than I did for him? It was all out of whack and it didn't seem fair to him."

Dr. F's nodding and frowning and looking down at his legal pad, but he's not writing anything down. He also doesn't say anything about Ezekiel or anything else for a long minute. Dean's confused. There is something up with the doc.

Dean feels the urge to fill the silence. "Thanks for putting Sam in touch with your friend at the paper. He had his interview yesterday and it seemed to go really well."

"Oh, well, they'd be fools not to hire Sam."

"Obviously."

"Speaking of Sam…" Dr. F trails off without finishing his sentence, which is so out of character for him that Dean starts to get truly concerned.

"Yeah?" he prompts.

"I think that since he's started seeing me that maybe it would be better if you and I took a little bit of a break from our work."

"What? Why?"

"I need to be able to maintain my objectivity and my patient confidentiality. And you're my star, Dean. I think you and I could take a bit of a break."

Dean considers life without the lodestone of Dr. F's compassionate understanding and feels a little panicky. "But. I mean, is it really that much of a problem? Sam's grieving, he's been depressed, I want him to get help. But he's not a hot mess like me."

"It's not a competition, Dean." Dr. F smiles at him and he feels a little better. "But if you're interested in taking to a colleague of mine, I actually have someone that I think would be a good fit for you."

"You palming me off on another shrink?"

"He's not a shrink, he's a family therapist, like me. His office is a little farther away, though. But I've thought about having you speak with him a couple of times before. Now seems as good at time as any.

"What's his name?"

"Castiel Novak."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note, in case you are wondering--there is zero Dean/Cas in this fic.
> 
> Thanks for all the lovely comments, they really give me the motivation to keep going. Hope everyone reading this has a good week <3


	18. Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean gets a new therapist. Sam proposes an idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, some of these chapters are turning out to be longer than I thought, so I have adjusted the overall chapter count down. I'm so excited to share the next few chapters with you--I plan to post two tomorrow. <3

Sam gets the job at the newspaper, three eight-hour days a week, and he keeps working Saturdays at Winchester Pie Company. He also keeps sleeping on the sofa bed. Dean's seen him rub at the resulting crick in his neck, but Sam doesn't say a word of complaint and Dean pretends this doesn't bother him. But how long can this really go on, anyway? This place is barely big enough for one person, let alone two, even if Dean's at the shop most of the time. Sam's books are piled up on every surface, and his clothes are still in his suitcase, since there's really nowhere to unpack them to. But still, if he's only going to be here until he goes to L.A., they can make it work for however long that is. Dean's sure as hell not going to suggest one of them move out.

Dean waits a week before calling this Dr. Novak character. He finds it a little weird that Dr. F wants him to see a different therapist, and he doesn't mention it to Sam because he doesn't want Sam to feel bad for bogarting Dr. F. It's not his fault—Dean suggested he go to the doc in the first place, after all. The entire thing makes him go around in circles in his head until he finally punches the numbers into his phone.

No one answers, but a gruff voice tells him to leave a message for Novak Family Therapy at the beep.

"Yeah, hi, this is Dean Winchester. I'm a patient of Dr. F—uh, Dr. Farnsworth. He thought I should call you. So call me back when you can." Dean recites his number and ends the call, then promptly forgets about Dr. Castiel Novak until the following day when an unknown number rings while he's on his lunch break.

"This is Dean."

"Hello, Dean, this is Castiel Novak. You left a message yesterday." It's the gravelly voice from the answering machine.

"Oh yeah. Thanks for calling me back. Dr. F—Dr. Farnsworth, I always call him Dr. F—might have mentioned me?"

"Jerry—Dr. Farnsworth, I always call him Jerry—did mention you. All he told me was that he thought you and I would be a good fit, but he didn't tell me anything about your current situation. Are you looking for an immediate appointment?"

"No, not really. Dr. F and I see—saw—each other once a week, but it's like for maintenance, you know? I'm not in a special hurry."

"How about next Thursday, 10 o'clock?"

"You got anything on Friday? It's just that that's the day I see—saw—Dr. F, and I already have the time blocked out at work."

"It would have to be early—eight am?"

"That works. I'm usually at work by six, so eight's fine."

"What do you do?"

"I'll tell you Friday. Do you like chocolate?"

"Only with peanut butter."

Dean smiles. He makes a wicked Reese's inspired pie. "See you then."

***

Dr. Castiel Novak's office is a good twenty minutes outside of town, practically in the middle of nowhere. It's a small cabin-looking outbuilding next to a bigger house. If Dr. F hadn't vouched for him, Dean would have been worried about disappearing into the woods next to the house and never being seen again. He parks his motorcycle in front, unsure he's got the right place until he sees the small wooden sign: Novak Family Therapy.

The door to the big house opens, and a slim, red-haired woman steps out. Her skin is pale as milk and when she sees him she smiles and waves, open and friendly. Then she heads to the garage on the other side of the house, and Dean watches her back a silver Prius out and head toward the main road.

He turns his attention back to the little cabin. He squares his shoulders. If he doesn't like the guy, it's not like he ever has to come back. He grabs his small offering and knocks on the door.

The man who answers is shorter than him, especially since he's wearing socks, no shoes, and a rumpled blue suit. He smiles at Dean with even, white teeth; the smile makes crinkles around his electric blue eyes. He's much younger than Dr. F, maybe early thirties. Dean isn't sure what he expected, but it wasn't this. 

"Come in. You must be Dean. I'm Castiel."

Dean follows him inside. The air smells of freshly brewed coffee. "Nuh-uh, Dr. F tried the same trick on me. I can't do it. Gotta be Dr. Novak. Dr. N sounds weird for some reason."

"It's okay for you to call me by my first name, although I know it is a bit unconventional."

"Castiel?" Dean sounds out the name. It doesn't exactly roll off his tongue. "You got a nickname?"

"Sometimes Anna calls me Cas."

"Who's Anna?"

"My wife." Cas's voice warms noticeably.

"The redhead?"

"Yes." Can smiles proudly. "Did you meet?"

"She waved. Seems nice." Dean hands Cas the small paper bag. "Cas it is."

"What's this?"

"I call it Heaven on Earth Pie. You'll like it, but you can save it for later if you want. Any chance of a cup of coffee?"

Cas fixes them both mugs of coffee, sits Dean down in a little sitting area in front of a big picture window with views into the trees beyond. On the wall of the kitchen area is a beautiful painting of a man with a pair of wings stalking through trees very similar to the ones outside the window.

"Nice place you got here."

"Thanks. We like it. So, you own Winchester Pie Company?"

"That's me. How did you know?"

"I called Jerry and asked him a little bit about you."

"Oh yeah? What did he say?"

"He's very fond of you, for one thing. That might be why he felt he needed to get some distance from you as a patient."

"Oh." Dean's not sure how he feels about that. He's fond of Dr. F, too. Besides Bobby, his relationship with Dr. F has been the most stable with an older adult in his entire life. He hopes that even if Dr. F ends up firing him as a patient, they can stay friends.

"He also said that he's working with your brother right now. So I thought that would be a good place to start, unless there's something else you want to talk about in particular today."

"Sorry, where would be a good place to start?"

"Tell me about Sam."

Up until now, Dean's been feeling comfortable with Cas. He likes the guy's open manner that sort of clashes with his just-the-tiniest-bit overly formal speech. It's almost like English is his second language, but he doesn't have a trace of an accent. But the second he mentions Sam, Dean feels tension permeate his body.

"Sam? What about him?"

"Is he your only family?"

Dean gives him the shorthand, Mary's murder, John's death a few years ago. "Bobby's, our uncle, sort of, is the closest thing to family. Otherwise, it's just me and Sam."

"And you live together?"

For some reason Dean hedges. "Well, Sam just graduated college. He moved back in for a while."

"You like living alone?"

"Not really." Dean knows the place is too small for them, but he doesn't care. He likes rubbing elbows with Sam while they're watching TV and cleaning up meals. Likes having someone else to cook for. "But I wouldn't want a random roommate. Sam's not bad to have around. He can't cook for shit, but he's thoughtful, you know, he always remembers trash day. He buys these little…succulents, I think they're called, at the grocery store, they're all lined up under the living room window. And he doesn't have a car, so he can borrow my baby more easily when he needs it. It's just convenient, I guess."

"He sounds like a good roommate."

Dean smiles. He feels the tension drain away slightly. Obviously, Cas can tell that Sam's awesome.

"And what about friends, or other relationships?"

Here it comes. Dean's going to have to go through the whole thing again. But he's been in therapy long enough there's no point in stalling. And even though this is their first session, and he doesn't know how long they'll be seeing each other, there's also no point in not being honest with Cas. Plus, if he turns out to suck, Dean will just leave and tell Dr. F he has lousy taste in therapists.

"First of all, I'm gay." He pauses, but Cas has no reaction. "And I'm not seeing anybody. I was dating this guy, Ezekiel, for almost a year, but we broke up a little while ago."

Cas still says nothing. 

"I have a few friends. There's this chick who works next door, Charlie. She's pretty cool." He sees Charlie almost every day, and he really likes her. She's a huge nerd, and she likes horror movies, and she thinks they should do a _Halloween_ theme pie for Halloween this year, like a cross-promotional thing.

"Um, that's about it." Is Dean supposed to feel bad about not having more friends?

"And is there anything on your mind, anything you want to dig into with me that maybe you felt like you couldn't with Dr. F?"

Dean's mind instantly goes into montage mode: Sam, smiling at him over morning coffee. Sam, in nothing but a towel coming out of the bathroom. Sam, sleeping six inches away from him, so close he can feel his body heat, hear every breath. _Sam_.

But even if Dean wanted to talk about that with this dude, he already knows what he's going to say. Codependent to an extreme degree. Unhealthy. Inappropriate. Wrong. He'd probably try to get Dean to move out, give Sam some space. He's not ready to give Sam up quite yet.

"No, like I said, Dr. F and I were mostly maintenance." 

"Interesting." Cas smiles, but it doesn't quite seem to reach his eyes. "I'm just thinking about why Jerry referred you to me. Obviously, therapy can be helpful even when you aren't going through anything major, but—" he stops. He looks down at his notebook.

He's silent for so long Dean grows antsy. "What?"

"Let me think about it some more. This time good for you next week?"

"I guess."

"Great. I'll see you then." Cas stands up; it's a dismissal. Dean gets to his feet. His coffee's still hot.

"Okay. I'll just…"

"Dean. Everything is going to be okay."

Cas is a strange dude, and Dean's known him for like five minutes, so there's no reason his words should make Dean feel less anxious. But they do.

***

"…so I suggested they redo their archives system and drew up a flowchart for how it could make so much more sense, and Jody loved my ideas so she's thinking about upping the research budge so I could go full time, isn't that great?"

Dean looks up from chopping onions. He's making them penne alla vodka on the Tuesday night after his first visit with Cas. "Full time? Is that what you want?"

Sam looks at his bottle of beer instead of at Dean. "Yeah, I mean. I really like it there. The people are cool, and it's nice to be left alone most of the day to just do my thing. I don't think it's a forever kind of a job, but it's good for now."

"Okay, well, that's great, Sam."

"I was thinking…" Dean glances up again and Sam's still not looking at him. "I was thinking that between my salary and the insurance money we should think about…look, I know the housing market is stupidly overblown around here, but it would be better than wasting money on rent forever."

Dean knew it could happen, that it probably would happen, but it still feels like being punched in the kidney. "Oh."

"I've looked a couple listings, but there's no rush."

"You've been thinking about this?" He drops the onions into the butter but even the amazing aroma doesn't cheer him up like it normally does.

"For a little bit. We have the money and with what we pay in rent…and if we found a house you could have a driveway for the Mustang, maybe even a garage. A bigger kitchen. This one place I saw listed has this extra-large shower with like six jets. Cool, huh?"

Dean stirs the onions until it finally dawns on him what Sam's saying. "You want us to buy a place…together?"

"Well, yeah. It would be easier if we pooled our resources. Maybe we could even find something with a big enough yard for a dog?" Sam sounds so childishly hopeful as he sneaks that little item in, Dean has to smile, even as a million questions run through his head.

"What about L.A.? Law school?"

Sam frowns. "I haven't really decided about that yet. But either way, buying our own place makes sense. We need more room and we can afford it. And I'll aways have someplace to stay when I come to Petaluma."

Dean never imagined that he'd be a homeowner, but he'd never thought he'd own a business either. And that Sam wants to do this with him, wants to keep living with him…even if it's temporary—it's so much more than he ever thought he'd have.

"It's a great idea, Sam. But you are not getting a dog and then leaving it with me to take care of while you go live the high life in Los Angeles."

"I would never," Sam swears earnestly.

Dean hides his grin in the refrigerator as he pretends to hunt for the parmesan.

***

Friday morning finds him back at Cas's door, but it's not a rumpled man in stocking feet who answers the door, but the redhead he'd seen last week.

"Hi, I'm Anna," she says, gesturing him inside. "You must be Dean. Cas forgot something at the house, so he asked if I'd meet you."

"Hey." 

Anna goes to the coffee maker without asking and fills him up a giant mug. Dean likes her already. "Are you a therapist, too?"

She laughs, silvery and wry. "Definitely not. I'm an artist. I paint and I teach art at a few different places."

Dean glances over at the painting of the man with wings. It's as powerful as he remembers it. "You painted that, didn't you."

She smiles. "I did."

"Wow. You're, like, crazy talented."

"Thanks." She narrows her eyes at him. "You have really great bone structure. Look at those cheekbones. You ever think about modeling? My students at the nursing home would be on cloud nine if I brought you with me for life drawing night."

"Life drawing?" Dean's eyebrows come together. "Isn't that, like, naked people?"

"Doesn't have to be fully nude." She's looking at him completely calm.

"You're fucking with me, right?"

"Actually, I'm not. But if you aren't comfortable with the idea—"

"Yeah, no, I'm not model material, trust me." Dean laughs nervously. "You wanna see cheekbones, Sam's the one you want. He might even do it, especially if it was something that helped old people."

"Sam?"

"My—" Dean realizes he just volunteered his brother as a nude model and feels the blush rise on his cheeks. "Never mind."

"Well, if you change your mind, just let Cas know. Here he is," Anna says, as Cas comes through the back door. He looks much the same as last week, but is wearing shoes this time, and carrying his notebook in his hand. "Dr. Novak." She tilts her head toward him and he kisses her cheek.

"Mrs. Novak," he says, in his sandpaper voice that makes everything sound intimate. He smiles a private little smile at her and she smiles back, differently from how she'd smiled at Dean.

The familiarity of it, their clear devotion to each other gives Dean a strange feeling, like he shouldn't be there. It makes him feel…sad. There's no one he's ever going to be able to be like that with. 

Anna steps away from her husband and waves. "Well, it was great to meet you, Dean. And remember what I said." She head for the back door, turns around and says, "See you at the house for lunch, Cas?"

"Yes, around twelve-thirty?"

"If I'm in the studio, drag me out. I've been working on the same bit of sky for two days and I need to be stopped."

"Understood."

Then Anna's gone, and Dean's left with a mug of coffee and a chestful of envy at what they have.

"Sorry I wasn't here when you got here," Cas says. 

"It's fine." Dean tries to smile. He gestures to the painting. "She's an amazing artist."

"I know." Cas's pride and love seep into those two little words. He heads for the same set of chairs they sat in last time.

Dean sinks into his, oddly apprehensive. He feels like Cas is going to pass judgment on him.

"First off, I have to thank you for the pie you brought last week. It was truly incredible. I told Anna and she won't stop mentioning we have to get into town to visit Winchester Pie Company."

"Glad you liked it." Dean's never tired of hearing people rave about his pies. "Let me know when you're coming by and I'll be sure to meet you and give you the Winchester Special."

"What's that?"

"You'll have to come by and see."

Cas laughs. It's the first time he's done that in Dean's presence. Dean relaxes a degree.

"Next, I'm sorry if you left our first meeting feeling as if I hadn't given you enough time. Sometimes I just find it helpful to think about things on my own and try to sort through my own thoughts before I try to communicate them to others."

"Okay." Dean still isn't sure what Cas knows that Dean doesn't, but he's willing to go along for the ride. "So, you got some pearls of wisdom for me, Cas?"

"I might. But I don't know if we've established a solid enough footing to go into everything just yet."

"Everything? What everything?" Is Dean nuts and Cas is the first one to catch on? "Don't keep me in suspense, man."

Cas smiles. "Dean, I said everything is going to be okay and I truly believe that. But you're going to have to give this process some time."

"What process? What are you talking about?"

"Let me ask you—how was your week?"

"My week?" Dean's thrown by the seemingly innocuous question. "It was—" He thinks back. "—good. The pie shop's been busy, even with the heat we've been having. I'm working an ice-cream pie, but haven't found the right proportions yet. Sam's going full-time at his job and we're talking about buying a bigger place. Maybe a house. He found us this Realtor, Donna. She's a little kooky but she knows absolutely everything about Petaluma real estate, apparently. We're supposed to see a couple of places this Sunday."

"Whose idea was it to buy a house? Yours or Sam's?"

"Sam brought it up. At first I thought he meant he wanted to move out, but he actually thinks we should buy something together." He can't help smiling at how excited Sam had been to read him different house descriptions over breakfast and dinner all week. Some of them were completely out of their price range, but a few had sounded nice. One of the promising ones has a two-car garage and he can see himself out working on the Mustang, all his tools neatly organized, not having to haul them down three flights of stairs every time he needs to make a repair, Sam maybe working in the front yard. They'd never had a yard or a garden to tend to, but he could see Sam getting into taking care of plants, probably wanting to make sure their landscape is drought tolerant or whatever. "He keeps talking about getting a dog."

"I see. You two ever have a pet?"

Dean snorts. "Hardly. John wouldn't have wanted another mouth to feed. I can take or leave them, but Sam's always had a soft spot for dogs. His tenth birthday, he wanted a puppy so bad. I even went to the pound, to see what it would take to get one, but you had to have a real address and an inspection and everything. We were living in a motel. I felt so…"

Cas lifts an eyebrow. Okay, maybe he and Dr. F do have a few things in common.

Dean finishes the thought. "Powerless."

"In what way powerless?"

"To make life better for him. To give him what he wanted. I could barely give him what he needed."

"You did, though. You made his life better, Dean. You gave him everything he needed. Maybe now you can give him what he wants, too."

Dean has the feeling Cas is talking in some kind of code. "What, you mean give in on the dog thing?"

Cas smiles. "Perhaps."

They spend the rest of the session talking about a bunch of little things, from dog breeds to interest rates and an issue Dean's having with one of his employees. The time goes by quickly and Dean's surprised when his coffee's drained and the clock tells him it's time to leave. Cas is a good listener and it's actually nice having someone besides Dr. F to talk to. Even if Cas can be cryptic, he has a way of getting Dean to think about things a little differently than Dr. F.

"Next week?" Cas asks when he walks Dean to the door.

"Sure, Cas. Next week."


	19. Special

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas and Anna come to the pie shop. Sam and Dean find their house.

Saturday the pie shop is slammed. It's Labor Day weekend and it seems everyone is out and about, trying to cram one last summer weekend in. Sam's working the register, Gina's on drinks, and Dean's boxing up orders as fast as his fingers can move. 

"Dean, I need two apples and a peach to go."

"After that, 86 the apple. We're out."

Sam reaches up with his octopus arms to cross Apple Pie Life off the menu. At this rate, they'll be sold out of everything before day's end.

The door chimes and Dean looks up, starts when he recognized the couple that walks through the door. Cas had mentioned wanting to come in, but that was only yesterday. Dean hadn't fully thought through what it might mean to have Cas, and Anna, here in the person. He glances at Sam, who's smiling at them with his customer service smile, dimples showing only a little bit.

"Welcome to Winchester Pie Company," Sam says.

"Hi," Anna says enthusiastically. "I can't believe I've never been here before. It smells like heaven."

"Just cinnamon," Dean says. "Hi, Anna. Hey Cas." He waves and tries not to feel awkward about his therapist coming into his regular life. Dr. F has been here a million times, but that's different.

Sam looks a little surprised when he realizes Dean knows the new arrivals, but he just moves over, lets Dean take the spot in the front of the counter and takes over boxing up the last customer's order.

"Hello, Dean," Cas says solemnly. "We're here for the Winchester Special."

Sam snorts and Dean hip checks him as reaches the bag across to the counter to the customer who'd bought the last of the apple.

"You got it, Cas. Each Winchester Pie Company pie is cut into eighths. The Winchester Special is eight different types of pie in one tin. You can pick the flavors, or you can take dealer's choice."

"That's a lot of pie," Cas says.

"But then we can try a bunch of flavors. I love it," Anna says. "You pick, Dean."

"Yes, ma'm." Dean sets about assembling the best flavor combinations, half chocolate-based, half-fruit.

Meanwhile, Anna orders a latte and Cas orders black coffee. "You must be Sam," he says, while Sam takes over the espresso machine so Gina can go on break.

"That's me," Sam says. "Friends of Dean's?"

Dean still hasn't told Sam that he started to see another therapist, but he knows he's taking a break from Dr. F. It's not like he doesn't want to tell him, it just hasn't come up. Sam never talks about his sessions with Dr. F, so Dean figures he doesn't really want to hear about Dean's sessions, either.

"New friends," Anna says, sparing Cas, or Dean for the matter, from having to lie. "I'm Anna, and this is my husband, Cas. We live kind of in the middle of nowhere, which is why we've never come in before. But unless Dean starts delivering, I'll have to plan trips in just for the Winchester Pie Company."

"Delivery," Dean says, seizing on the neutral topic. "Now there's an idea. Pie in thirty minutes or less. What do you think, Sammy? Revolutionize the pie industry?"

"If anyone could do it, it would be you," Sam says. "Here's your latte, Anna."

While Sam goes to fill up Cas's coffee, Anna leans over the counter to whisper to Dean. "I see what you mean about the cheekbones." She winks at him and Dean's own cheeks get hot. Cas won't have told her that Sam's his brother due to confidentiality rules, so she probably thinks he has an inappropriate crush on his employee or something. Which…fair point.

Sam turns around in time to see Anna's wink. He puts the coffee down between the two of them, stays next to Dean's side. "Anything else I can get you two?"

"I think eight slices of pie will be sufficient," Cas says in that dry way of his. "Anything else for you, darling?"

Anna looks at the cases, and Dean looks at Cas, who's looking at Anna. They really are kind of a sweet couple. Dean wonders how long they've been married. They have a familiarity between the two of them that makes it seem like they've known each other for years, but they're so into each other they could be newlyweds.

"As long as Dean has given us a slice of Missouri's Mocha Pie, I'm good to go. Who's Missouri?"

"She was a friend of my mom's," Dean says. "It's not her recipe, but I remember she made something similar, not that I appreciated it at age four. Mine has espresso, dark chocolate, and a homemade lady-finger-based crust. And yes, I did put a slice in the Winchester Special."

"Dean, you are a gem." Anna takes the pie box and hands it to Cas, then reaches into her purse, but Dean waves her off.

"Nope, on the house."

"I can't let you do that," Cas says.

"I insist," Dean says. "But if you want, you can donate to the cause of the month." He points to a jar by the register, with a sign about one of the local shelters for victims of domestic abuse.

"All right." Anna drops two twenties in the jar. "What a great idea."

"Sam figures pie puts people in a good mood for helping others."

Sam clears his throat. "Well, there are a lot of important causes right here in Petaluma. Act local and all that."

"I love that. I have an art show coming up in a couple of months. I should talk to the gallery about partnering with a local group to raise funds at the opening," Anna says.

"What kind of artist are you?" Sam asks, and Anna starts telling him about her paintings, while Cas moves closer to Dean.

"I hope it's okay we stopped by," Cas says. "Anna really wanted to."

"No worries." Dean smiles. "It's just, Sam doesn't know I've been seeing you, so—"

"I understand. Well, we better get out of your way. The shop is lovely, and I'll be lucky if we make it home without breaking into this on the way." He raises the pie box and smiles. 

It hits Dean that actually really likes Cas and Anna and he wishes they were simply friends. He and Sam could have them over for a barbecue or something once they get into their new place. That's the kind of thing normal people do, right? But Cas is his therapist, and Anna thinks he and Sam…whatever. They're not actually friends.

Dean pushes the rush of disappointment back into its box and tunes back into Anna's conversation with Sam, who's asking her about the gallery she's going to be showing her work at, and telling her he'll give her his contact at the animal rescue place he volunteers at sometimes.

"Thanks, Sam, that would be so helpful." She pulls out her phone. "Give me your number and I'll text you later to remind you."

Dean's kind of stunned when Sam reels off his number like it's nothing. Like if Cas and Anna are Dean's friends, then they're automatically his, too. Like…between his job and wanting to buy a house, and investing back in the community with his fundraising projects Sam actually wants to be here. Here. Which happens to be the same place Dean is. 

"Bye, Sam. Bye, Dean," Anna calls when Cas gently nudges her toward the door. "Thanks again."

Dean watches through the plate glass window as Cas places his coffee on top of the pie box so he can pick up Anna's free hand with his. Strangely, the sight makes him have to blink his eyes a few times to clear the random film of tears that's gathered.

"So, where do you know those two from?" Sam asks. "Anna's a trip. I really want to check out her artwork."

"She's really good. You'll love her stuff." The moody, dramatic paintings he's seen of Anna's in Cas's office really would be right up Sam's ally. He wonders idly how much she sells them for.

"And you met them…?" Sam prompts again.

Dean take a deep breath. There's no point in lying. "I've actually been seeing Cas."

Sam's entire body freezes. "What?"

"Dr. F and I are on a break, so he got me in touch with Cas. He's a family therapist, too. No big deal. I've only been a couple of times. But he's cool."

Sam's posture instantly relaxes. "Oh. Therapy. I thought you meant—" he stops himself. "You want me to start counting out the register?"

"It's a little early yet. Welcome to Winchester Pie Company," Dean says as a group of teenagers comes through the door. He's too busy for the rest of the day to think much about what Sam had thought he'd meant.

***

Sunday after lunch they meet up with Donna, their realtor who has a thick Minnesota accent but an encyclopedic knowledge of the local housing market. She knocks two houses off their list right away as being terrible buys, and adds two more. They end up seeing four houses and two condos by dinnertime. Dean finds something to like about each of them, though the condos aren't as private as the houses, but they are cheaper. Sam, though, finds something to hate about each one.

"I never thought you'd be so picky," Dean says after they've left Donna and are heading back to the apartment with takeout. "It's not like anything wouldn't be a step up from the apartment."

"Buying a house is a really big deal. I just want it to be…I don't know. Special, I guess."

"We're not in the market for the Taj Mahal, Sammy."

"I know. But I just have a feeling we'll know it when we see it."

"I hope so. There's only so many times I can hear Donna say 'you betcha' without wanting to burn my copy of _Fargo_."

"She's sweet."

"You think everyone is sweet," Dean grumbles.

Sam just laughs.

That night after dinner, Dean's not really watching the nature show Sam put on, but it's something to focus his eyes on as he mentally scrolls through his recipe list. He'll be ordering supplies for Thanksgiving soon. It'll be the shop's busiest week of the year. Sam's sifting through ever more real estate listings on his laptop a foot away. Occasionally he'll ask Dean what he thinks of this or that, but for the most part, it seems like he hasn't found whatever magic combination of things he's looking for.

Dean's not convinced they need to be all that particular. If it has four walls, a non-leaky roof, and working water and electricity, it'll already be miles above most of the places they crashed growing up. This apartment has been their home for years, but it's pretty basic and they do fine. But he can tell this means something more to Sam, which means he'll try to be patient.

Either way, he really can't complain about life right now. He's making a living doing something he loves, and Sam's doing so much better than he was at the start of the summer. He really seems to like working at the newspaper, doing background on articles for the reporters and sifting into the paper's own archives for customer requests or individual research projects.

Dean still catches him looking sad from time to time and he'll know that Sam's probably thinking about Jess. And that's okay. He's always going to be broken up about her. But he's seemed to have moved on somehow since he started seeing Dr. F. Another thing that Dean has to thank him for. He owes Dr F so much, how disappointed would the doc be in him if all the work they'd done together had ended up with Dean even more twisted than when he started?

Yeah, life is good. He and Sam are in a good place. Ever since he acknowledged that his feelings for Sam aren't in the normal range, he's had some tough moments, but overall, he thinks he's dealt with it pretty good. It's not like he's ever going to do anything about it. Sam's his brother, and Sam loves him, and that's good enough for him.

And those moments when he forgets that he's not supposed to feel the way he does, and he he catches a glimpse of Sam out of the corner of his eyes and thinks, that's the person I want to spend my life with. Well. It's not like Dean's not used to the helpless ache that's sort of constantly on a low simmer in his gut. Sometimes it's just easier to ignore it than others.

Like now, when Sam's stretched out on the hastily made sofa bed, barefoot, raggedy jeans riding low on his hips, gray pie shop tee stretched across his chest, laptop set on his flat stomach, squinting at the screen so his lips make a soft little pout. Dean feels that simmer roll into a boil, but only until Sam looks away from the screen at right at Dean and Dean feel his kaleidoscope eyes meet his own, catching him looking. It's like an ice bath thrown on the fire. Dean twitches at the change in temperature. 

Sam raises an eyebrow. "You okay?" 

Dean can't speak, but he nods. He's totally, a hundred percent okay. 

Right.

***

The next Friday morning he shows up at Cas's with a slice of Apple Pie Life.

"We were out of it last week when you and Anna came by. Didn't want you to miss out."

"You're spoiling us," Cas says. "We feasted all weekend on the Winchester Special. Thank you, Dean."

"Anytime."

They spend the session talking about the pie shop, and how Dean came to open in it, and what his plans are. At the end of the session, Cas mentions that Anna was hoping to make a special order for her upcoming gallery opening.

"Sure, we can do something fun. Have her call the shop and we'll figure it out."

Sunday, he and Sam go out with Donna again, looking at four more places. Sam vetoes each one.

"What's wrong with the place on Cabrillo? It had a pretty nice garage."

"That's true." Sam bites his lip. "If you really liked it, I'd go back and take another look—"

Dean immediately backpedals. Sam's got to love the place. "No, no, we're waiting for the perfect house. We both have to like it, all right?"

"Right."

The following Wednesday Dean's working on the price list for the Thanksgiving menu he's offering all the local restaurants that ordered from him last year when Sam bursts through the doors of the Winchester Pie Company, out of breath as if he'd run all the way from the newspaper office a mile and a half away, even though Dean knows he's got the car today.

"Dean!"

"Easy tiger, what's up?"

"I found it! It just went on the market this morning and Donna says if we want it, we need to put in an offer today. Can you leave for like half an hour?"

"Seriously?"

"It's our house, Dean. Please. Hey, Gina, you can survive without Dean for a bit, right?"

Before Dean knows it, he's in the passenger seat of the Mustang and Sam's driving them back in the direction of their apartment, but before they get there, he hooks a right, toward the coast.

"It's a bit farther outside of town than I was hoping, but you like to drive anyway. It has a garage, and big backyard and a fire pit already built in. No hot tub, but enough room that we could put one in someday if we wanted. The kitchen is really beautiful. Oh yeah, it's sort of built into a hillside, so it's kind of private, but then it has these great views."

"Sounds like we can't afford it," Dean says, trying to make it sound like a joke, but he doesn't want Sam's hopes to be dashed when it's out of their modest reach.

"Don't worry about that right now. Just tell me what you think." Sam turns onto Lebanon Drive. The lots are bigger in this part of town, the houses farther apart. He drives until it's been a minute since they last saw a house, and pulls up in front of a big wooden building. It is kind of built into a hillside. It looks like three stories, maybe, but shallow, so not too big for them. There's what looks like a two car garage at street level, and a winding staircase that leads from the little driveway back behind the house. It seems the yard is actually above the house. It's unlike any place Dean's ever seen. And it's way too nice for them. He notices belatedly that Donna's there, with her Realtor code for the lockbox to let them in. 

It's clear the owners haven't moved out yet, as all their stuff is still there. One of the people who lives there must be into magic, because there's magic ephemera all over the place. And it's not that big, but it is special, that's for sure. The first floor has two bedrooms and what looks like little office, plus a full bathroom. The second level houses the kitchen, living room, and another full bath. The living room is nice and airy, but the kitchen is undeniably gorgeous, gleaming and newly renovated.

"Oh wow, two ovens. And a Wolf range. I've always wanted a really high-powered range."

Sam's grinning as Dean salivates over the built-in sub-zero refrigerator and the butcher block island.

"So you like it?" Sam's so excited his hair keeps falling into his eyes and Dean wants to forcibly shove his bangs out of his face. And then maybe kiss him to get him to calm down.

"It's fucking amazing, but unless someone was savagely murdered here and the house is haunted by their mutilated corpse and priced way under market value, there's no way this is in our price range."

"There's a vivid image," Donna says cheerfully. 

Sam ignores them both and starts up the last flight of stairs. "Let me show you the best part." 

The third floor is one open room, the walls lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves filled with books. There's a couch and some comfy looking chairs and a reading table with those old fashioned library lamps.

"A library," Dean says. Sam goes over the French doors on the back wall, pushes them open to reveal the private little patio, with the fire pit Sam mentioned. Dean can imagine them sitting out there into the night, beers in hand, stargazing from the comfort of their own little— "Stop, Sam. For real. This place is incredible, but we can't afford it."

"I have to tell you something." Sam sounds so serious Dean's heart skips a couple of beats. "You know my friend Brady? Well, he's kind of a jackass, but he's good with investments. He's kind of a genius, actually, at day trading. Well, it was a risk, but I gave him my half of the insurance money a few months after I got it. That's almost two years ago now. It's made a pretty sizable return."

"How sizable?" Dean's trying to process what Sam's saying, while Donna pretends to find the succulents planted on the edge of the patio fascinating.

"Like, it's earned three times what I gave him. We got lucky with a few stock splits."

"Brady got you a 300% return in two years? Are you sure it's legal?"

"Legal as can be, given the stock market is a totally rigged system. It's real money, Dean. We've got a little over 400K. Even if I keep some in the market, we have enough to put a really big down payment on this place, keep our mortgage payments low. With our income, we can manage the upkeep and taxes."

"You've done the math on this?" He's a little bit in shock, but he knows Sam wouldn't be taking it this far if it wasn't real.

"I have. We can do this." He glances at Donna, takes a step toward Dean. "If you love it as much as I do."

Dean swallows. Now he knows why Sam didn't want to settle for any of the perfectly fine post-war ranch style houses or modern condos. He was waiting for this place. Their house. He licks his lips. He feels a little bit like he's about to jump off the edge of a cliff into the chilly ocean below. He feels like this is the beginning of something, he's just not sure what. "I love it." _I love you_. "Let's do it."

Sam's smile is bright enough to be seen from space.

***

Dean's whistling when he knocks on the door of Cas's office Friday morning.

"Hello, Dean."

"Hiya, Cas," he says, going through the by-now normal ritual of coffee and settling down in their respective chairs.

"You appear to be in a good mood today."

"I am. We put in an offer on a house this week and the buyers accepted. We're in escrow." Dean had had to look that word up and then have Donna explain it to him to make sure he understood. Things could still go wrong—the inspection could turn up an army of termites, or a poltergeist or some shit—but Dean's feeling pretty optimistic about the deal going through. He even already put in notice on the apartment with his landlord.

"Congratulations. Do you want to tell me about it?"

Dean launches into a description of their house, and Cas smiles when he gets to the part about the patio with the fire pit. "You and Anna will have to come chill with us sometime."

"We'd like that." Cas's smile fades a little. "I'm really happy for you, Dean. It sounds like something that's going to be really positive for you and for Sam."

"Thanks. You know, Sam really made it happen, in more ways than one."

"It sounds like Sam's thinking about the future," Cas says thoughtfully.

Dean shrugs. He hasn't brought up law school in a while, and Sam hasn't either. He's okay with living the present, since the present happens to consist mainly of his brother. "I guess."

"Dean, I want to talk to you about something, and I think we know each other well enough now that we'll be able to talk about it productively. It might not be easy for you, but like I said the first day we met—everything is going to be okay."

Dean shifts in his seat, his mood instantly deflated. Cas sounds so goddamn serious. "You're scaring me, man."

"I don't want to scare you. I want to help, if I can." Cas leans forward a little bit in his chair, levels Dean with his blue-eyed stare. "Dean, I think it's time we talked about the reason you're really here."

"And what's that?"

"You're in love with Sam."


	20. Okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas and Dean talk.

Cas's eyes are kind, his tone understanding. Dean might throw up. He half rises out of his chair, but gets a little dizzy, so he sits back down again. 

"Dean, it's okay."

"No, it's not. There's nothing okay about it." Dean knows he should be lying, should be laughing, even. But he can't lie to Cas, not when it's obvious Cas has somehow known all along. "It's not okay, Cas. I know that and I know what I have to do and we don't need to talk about this."

"Remember when you first starting coming to see me and there was a moment when I…struggled...with whether or not to tell you why I thought Jerry Farnsworth referred you to me?"

"I guess, why?" How can Cas _know_ and be so fucking calm?

"There's something I want to tell you about me. And Anna." His voice is grave. 

Dean can't explain the goosebumps on his arms.

"We're husband and wife. We're also first cousins."

Dean blinks. Cousins? "How—?"

"Anna's mother is my father's sister. We grew up together. And when we were adults, we fell in love. And our family didn't understand. But we got married anyway. Because we love each other, and society will tell you that we shouldn't, that even if we can't imagine being with anyone else in the world, that we should choose loneliness, despair, heartbreak over having the person we most love and need in the world in our lives. Well, I reject that. If two adults are in love, and being together makes them happier than being apart…that's good enough for me. That should be good enough for anyone."

Dean's mind is running a million miles an hour trying to process what Cas is saying.

"You and Anna—" He's surprised, and he expects to feel some kind of revulsion, but he finds that he has none. He's seen how they are together. He's envied it, the easy intimacy, the seemingly effortless way they are together, as if everything they do is preordained and wonderful. So she and Cas are related. It doesn't really change how Dean feels about them. His mind latches onto something else Cas said. "You think Dr. F wanted me to see you because he knows how I felt about Sam? I never told him." The feeling of wanting to throw up is back. How can he ever look Dr. F in the eye again, knowing that he knows?

"Jerry is very perceptive. I believe he thought you would at least benefit from my perspective."

"He must hate me."

Cas frowns at that. "Oh no, Dean. Jerry doesn't hate you. He cares about you a great deal. He cares enough to know that he can't necessarily give you guidance on this particular part of your life. He doesn't have all the answers. Neither do I, for that matter. But he loves you, of that I'm quite sure."

This is way too much to deal with all at once.

"So when I showed up, talking about Sam…what, is it tattooed on my forehead?" Dean shifts nervously. If Cas could tell after fifteen minutes, and Dr. F suspected after three years, does Sam know, too? Is Sam just humoring him with this house-buying charade?

"It's clear that you love your brother, Dean. The other aspects to that love that may be there, I don't think anyone would see them if they weren't already attuned to the possibility. I've made intra-family relationships something of specialty of mine. I've helped several of my clients either accept their feelings are one sided and move on as best they can, or help couples to get beyond society's mores and find a path forward together."

"Seriously?" Cousins is one things. Brothers is another. And when you put the fact that he basically raised Sam into the mix, it's too…Dean's mind skitters away from the dangerous idea that being with Sam isn't just a completely twisted fantasy.

But Dean's admittedly curious. How did Cas and Anna figure out that they loved each other? Were they on the same page from the start, or did one of them have to make the first move? "So you and Anna. Can I ask how you guys, um, fell in love?"

"Of course, I should explain. We grew up together, lived in the same town, went to the same school, had the same circle of friends. We decided to go to the same college, more or less independently of one another, but I was delighted about it. Anna always understood me, even when no one else on earth did.

"When we were sophomores, she had a boyfriend named Raphael. He was very handsome, charming, and he was talented artist. She was over the moon about him, and I found myself constantly wishing he would accidentally step into a sinkhole and disappear. I told myself it was because he was kind of sanctimonious and she could do better, and I was insecure about myself, being a gangly, awkward psychology student instead of a suave, hip artist. It took a long time for me to understand that I was jealous. And not of the time he spent with Anna that meant she couldn't spend time with me. Because I wanted to be the one to put a smile on her face, to hold her hand, to kiss her. To make love to her." 

Cas says the last part as matter of factly as he's said everything else, but Dean feels an electric shiver at the simple, devastating words.

"I wanted to be there for her when she was sick, to listen to her rant about the annoying professors in her department. I wanted everything with her. When I figured it out…I was scared. I thought there was something fundamentally wrong with me. And I was certain I could never, ever tell her how I felt. I tried everything. I dated other people, I journaled. That was the first time I ever went to therapy."

Dean cocks an eyebrow at that. "Oh yeah? How did that go?"

"Let's just say the college-provided counselor wasn't exactly prepared to deal with an angsty twenty-year-old psych major who was in love with his first cousin."

Dean barks out a laugh, some of his anxiety leaving him.

"And eventually, after I went through all those stages, I realized that if I didn't tell her how I felt, I'd always regret it. I was helped along by youthful bravado. I felt that we were soulmates and that if it was meant to be, it would be."

"How scientific of you."

"Love is not scientific, Dean. Some people try to dismiss love as pheromones, or chemicals, or imprinting, or chance. Some loves are influenced by those things. But I believe that love transcends the mundane, and sometimes it's inexplicable why we love the people we do. But we only get one chance here, and if you happen to feel the way you do about Sam about anyone at all, it's worth it to give it a chance."

Dean decides he'll think on that later, when he's certain this isn't all a super weird dream.

"So Anna, she fell into your arms the moment you said the magic words?"

Cas chuckles. "No. She berated me for telling her while she was with someone else. She said she'd been in love with me since we were sixteen and she'd only started dating other people because she'd figured I would never reciprocate her feelings. She said it was too late. She had Raphael."

"That blows," Dean says, imagining a twenty-year-old Cas holding his bleeding heart out to beautiful Anna and have her toss it back in his face.

"And then two weeks later Raphael won an art fellowship in Paris and dumped Anna. Two weeks after that we went on our first official date. Two years after that we got married."

"Huh." Not exactly a fairy tale. But Cas and Anna are the real deal. "But that's got to be rare, right? Two people who feel the same way about each other like the two of you?" 

"It's rare for any two people to find each other and build a relationship with deep enough roots to last. Then again, Anna's and my situation is more common than you might think."

Just because Anna loves Cas doesn't mean Sam… "I mean, just because you guys worked out and you know kind of what I'm going through, that doesn't mean Sam feels the way I do."

"You could talk to him about it and find out."

Dean stares at Cas aghast, but he appears to be perfectly serious.

"Come on, Cas. What am I going to say? Hey Sam, you know how I've taken care of you since we were kids and we're codependent as it is, but also, just so you know, I'm—" Dean gulps, spits it out "—in love with you and I was just wondering if by any chance you're as fucked up as I am?"

Cas smiles Dean's least favorite smile, the one where he looks like he knows something Dean doesn't but he's not about to just tell him. "Something like that."

"Yeah, great idea, Cas," Dean says, not trying to hide his sarcasm. "Then I'll get decked and he'll leave and I'll—" all of a sudden he's having trouble pulling in a breath. He rubs his chest. Fuck.

"Dean?"

"I'm, I can't breathe," Dean wheezes. In a flash, Cas is beside him, shoving his head between his knees, rubbing circles onto his back.

"It's going to be okay, Dean. You're having a panic attack. Just take your time. You can breathe. You just need to let yourself."

Dean tries, he really does, but it still feels like airless minutes pass before he can suck in a halfway decent breath.

"That's it. Take your time." Cas keeps talking, nonsense, and Dean eventually gets himself under control, where he doesn't have to actually think about taking in the next breath consciously, his body just does it for him.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pressure you, Dean. I know this is very overwhelming."

Dean lets out a weak laugh. "I think I liked it better when I was in denial about this."

"Denial is an effective coping mechanism, but it doesn't work forever."

"You sure about that?"

"What I'm sure of, Dean, is that you are strong enough to keep this locked down inside you for the rest of your life. But I don't want that for you. Jerry Farnsworth doesn't want that for you. Anna wouldn't. Bobby wouldn't. Everyone in your life who cares about you doesn't want you to live a half life. All of those people might not understand what you feel for Sam, but I know they already envy it. They envy that you have a person who fits all of your jagged edges perfectly. So I want you to really, really think about what you have to lose by telling Sam how you feel. You aren't going to lose your brother. Trust me. He'll always be there for you as your brother. But you might gain something very important—freedom."

Dean had never considered the weight of his feelings locked up inside, how they might someday slowly crush him, smother him to death when he's not looking. He sees how if he tells Sam, if he lifts the lid of that box, that maybe that fresh air and sunlight might ease some of the burden. It might change things between them, it might not. Dean's not expecting anything. But hearing Cas talk, it gives him hope that things could be better, even if not magically transformed. It's enough to get him thinking.

"Shit, Cas. You don't get paid enough." He rubs the back of his neck. "I'll think about it."

Cas smiles, warm and real. "Dean, everything is going to be okay."


	21. Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Sam move. Anna has an art show. Thanksgiving rolls around again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all have been so patient with this slow burn...it's finally coming to a bit of a boil. More to come. xo

As the fall speeds on, it's still hot as summer, though the nights dip noticeably cooler the closer they get to Halloween. The sellers of the house are motivated, so they've set a short escrow period. So far, everything checks out. The inspection went well, the bank's approved their mortgage. Sam's done some kind of wizardry with his money and Dean doesn't really understand it, but he has to swallow down the bile when he sees all the zeros on the wire transfer when they make their down payment. Donna's thrilled for them, and has helped them with every step. The closing date is a few days before Halloween. They both wrangle a couple of days off from work to pack and move. It's mostly boxes—they have barely any furniture worth taking with them. 

"We'll start with a bed and some patio furniture, and we can add to the rest over time," Sam says. "Which room are you going to want?"

Dean still can't get over that not only are they moving to an honest-to-god house, it's a fucking rad as hell one, too. The two bedrooms on the lower level are both medium-sized, and fairly dark, the only windows being ones overlooking the street outside, but in a cozy way, and they have nice built-in closets and pretty wood floors. Dean decides to leave Sam the one closer to the bathroom. "I guess we can put the sofa bed in the library in case we have guests?"

"Sure. Though I don't think Bobby's back would really make it on that bed," Sam says.

"I know you've been uncomfortable on it," Dean says. "Why didn't you—" he stops himself, since the alternative to sleeping on the awful pullout is sharing with Dean, and if Sam had wanted to do that, he would have. He swallows. Chalk up another point against telling Sam how he feels.

Ever since his revelatory talk with Cas, Dean has been thinking it over. He's talked himself into and out of it too many times to count. Cas hasn't pressed him on it, but he's made it clear he thinks Dean needs to tell Sam eventually. Dean tells himself he will when he's ready. He's looking for the right moment. 

Yeah. Because the right moment to tell your brother you're in love with him and you want to hold his hand and kiss him and make him come with your hands and mouth and body comes along all the time.

The day they sign they papers, Sam's so excited he's like a little kid, talking a mile a minute as they go through all the spots to sign. Dean looks down at the documents, at their names side-by-side. Sam Winchester. Dean Winchester. He looks up and locks eyes with Sam, who looks as awed as he feels that this is happening. The two of them becoming homeowners seemed like an impossibility. Maybe other dreams that seem impossible can come true, too.

Donna breaks out a bottle of California bubbly and makes them toast to themselves, and they laugh and joke and she basically orders them to throw a big housewarming party once they're all moved in. When she leaves them with the keys, she kisses them each of them on the cheek. "I'm really happy for you two," she says. Dean can't help but hear more in her words than what she's saying.

The bed Sam ordered arrives the day they finally get the last of their stuff out of the apartment and turn in the keys, and they spend their first full night in their house on Halloween.

"It'll make it easy to remember our anniversary," Sam says. "Do you think we'll get any trick or treaters?"

Dean doubts it, since they're practically at the end of the sparsely built-up street, but they buy three bags of Halloween candy just in case, and end up eating themselves sick while they unpack boxes and make their beds. It takes Dean a while to fall asleep in his dark, cool, room, with its absence of sounds from any neighbors or traffic from the street outside. But eventually he drops off and dreams of feeding Sam chocolate and honey and wakes up hard and a little sugar-hung-over. But happy.

***

Anna's show at the gallery opens mid-November. Winchester Pie Company caters the opening with bite-size savory tarts and miniature Heaven on Earth pies for dessert. Sam's hooked her up with the animal rescue place, so a portion of the night's sales will go to them. Anna looks like a goddess in a sparkly white flowing dress. Cas looks like he always does, rumpled, but proud as hell of his wife. Dean's there early to supervise the two pie shop staff who are in charge of the food, but they've got everything in well in hand, so he has a chance to wander around the gallery and look at Anna's paintings before it gets crowded.

She paints large canvases with bold colors and striking imagery, often dreamlike worlds with strange creatures and human-like figures morphed into something otherworldly. He stands for a long time in front of one painting that shows a world frozen in ice, dark rich blues contrasted with shining whites, two shadowy figures walking down a frozen path. He almost feels cold looking at it, and he remembers how cold it was that night, a lifetime ago, when he took Sam from the last awful motel room during a Tennessee ice storm, took him away from their father, the devil they knew, and brought him into a world that might have treated them far worse. Only it didn't. Instead they made it to Bobby, they made it to California. The Golden State, where every sun-kissed day has been a blessing, where Sam grew and thrived, where Dean changed and accepted, and where they made a home.

Anna comes and stands next to him. "I like that one, too," she says quietly.

"It reminds me of the sun," he says. It's a dark painting, but the cold reminds him of everything they've built here in this land of gold.

A group of chattering people walk in and Anna drifts away. Dean looks around, always for Sam, but he's coming from work and doesn't seem to be here yet. Instead, he spots another familiar figure.

"Dean, hello!" Dr. F's face creases into a grin as he crosses the room to pull Dean into a hug.

Dean laughs. He'd missed the old man. "Hey, Dr. F."

"I was hoping to see you here tonight. My Fridays just aren't the same without you."

"Are you sure you aren't just missing the pie? Haven't seen you the shop lately." Dean had tried not to read into it. Cas says Dr. F doesn't think Dean's a complete freak for feeling the way he does, but he only has Cas's word for that. 

"I know, I've been pretty busy," he says. "I promise to stop in next week." Dr. F doesn't seem forced or weirded out. 

Dean tries to go with it. "Do that. I've tweaked the chocolate bourbon pecan, you gotta let me know what you think."

"So how are things? The shop doing well?"

"Things are pretty good. Sam and I just moved, bought a house—he probably told you that, though."

"I heard." Dr. F smiles warmly. "It sounds like a fabulous place."

"You'll have to come over and check it out once we have more than two chairs."

"I'd love to. You know, it's been one of the real pleasures of the last few years getting to know you and your brother, Dean."

Dean feels his chest tighten. "Well, it's been a pleasure to know you, Dr. F. I think you—" he swallows. "I mean, you know how much you've helped me. I'm not saying I'm still not a mess, but god knows where I'd be or what I'd be doing if you hadn't—"

"You'd have found a way, Dean," Dr. F says gently. "But, believe me, I'm so glad I could help. You've taught me so much in return." Dr. F puts his hand on Dean's shoulder. "I want you to know how rare what you have is. How fortunate you and Sam are to have each other."

Dean blinks. Is Dr. F saying what it sounds like he saying? "Thanks, Doc."

Dr. F squeezes his shoulder once, then drops his hand. "Now, Castiel promised there would be food."

Dean laughs. "There's a Winchester Pie Company station in the back corner. Go knock yourself out."

Dean makes small talk with some of the other attendees, nurses a beer, and checks his phone about six times to make sure Sam hasn't messaged him. There's no word, and he should be here by now.

"Waiting for someone?" a guy with a reedy voice asks him when he checks his phone for the seventh time.

Dean looks over and shrugs. "Yeah."

"Hot date?" The guy's handsome, in an understated way, but he's wearing a scarf on a perfectly warm evening which sets off Dean's douche-meter.

Dean's about to respond when Sam finally walks through the gallery's doors. He's obviously changed since work, where his uniform is jeans and a flannel. He's wearing dark jeans and clean sneakers, and a crisp white button-down shirt with a dark blue blazer over it. Dean feels his mouth fall open like a gobsmacked cartoon character. Sam catches sight of him, grins, and starts threading his way through the crowd.

"Damn. Looks like I hit the nail on the head," Scarf Guy says, looking Sam up and down openly. Dean only wants to gouge the guy's eyes out a little bit.

"Hey, Dean." Sam's shiny like a new penny, so bright and beautiful it hurts to look at him. "What's up?" he says to Scarf Guy.

"You are," the guys says, tilting his head back. Sam's at least six inches taller than him. Then he winks.

Sam's smile turns shy. "I'm going to get a drink." He angles his body toward Dean. "Can I get you something?"

"Sure, I'll take another beer," he says.

Sam retreats, Dean tracking him all the way, as if he's going to lose him.

"I need one like that. Where did you get him?" Scarf Guy asks. "I don't suppose he's got a brother?"

Dean chokes on nothing. "Um."

"Don't worry, I won't try to steal him from you. Have you tried the asparagus mini-quiches? They're so good I'm liberating some for breakfast tomorrow. Later."

Then Scarf Guy is gone and Sam's back with two beers and Dean wishes the night was over so he and Sam could go home and put on HGTV and finish unpacking. He's been working overtime to prep for this event and Thanksgiving orders and he hasn't had time to unpack all his kitchen stuff, but he's got to get it done before Turkey Day itself, or they'll be having cold cereal for Thanksgiving dinner.

"You seem tense," Sam says.

"What? No. Uh. Just thinking about all the shit I have to do this week."

"Yeah? Let me know if I can help out at the shop. It's actually pretty slow at the paper right now."

"Okay. Thanks." He casts around for something, anything to say. It's not like they need to talk. But if they don't, then someone else is going to come over and hit on Sam again and there's only so many times Dean can take that before he's going to start getting growly. "You look nice," he blurts out, then immediately wants to break the beer bottle in his hand and stab himself with it.

But Sam just smiles a little shyly. "Yeah? Well, this is a special occasion."

"Right." It's Anna's big night and they're here to support her, not flirt with each other. Ugh. Not that—whatever.

"You look good, too," Sam says, almost so low Dean misses it.

Dean glances down at himself. He's wearing jeans and motorcycle boots, but instead of his usual Pie Company tee, he's in a dark burgundy button down. He'd shaved at work before coming over, cleaned up a little bit. "Couldn't look scruffy for Anna's big do."

"Speaking of," Sam says, as Anna floats up to them and kisses Sam on the cheek like she's known him forever. "Congratulations, it's a great party and your work looks amazing."

"I just hope everyone is buzzed enough to buy but not too drunk to actually pay." She laughs. "How's unpacking going?"

"Surprisingly slowly. I didn't think we had very much stuff, but every time I turn around there's another unopened box," Dean says.

"Well, let me know if you need help. I'm dying to see the place."

"We're going to have a party," Sam says decisively. "New Year's Eve. After the holiday rush is over at the shop and we have time to get some more furniture. You and Cas have to come."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," she says. "I already know exactly what I'm bringing you for a housewarming present." Then she's off again like a butterfly.

"So we're having a New Year's Eve party, huh?" Dean says with a lift of his eyebrows.

"Come on, there's nothing like a deadline. I'm sick of tripping over boxes."

"Then open them up and put the stuff inside them away, bitch," Dean says.

"Fine, jerk. Don't complain to me if you can't find your nutmeg grater or whatever."

"Forget the kitchen boxes, I have to do those," Dean says quickly.

Sam just stares at him.

Dean laughs. "All right. I'm on it. Can we leave now?" The place is buzzing, and Dean can see little red stickers next to a good number of paintings on the wall, including the icy scene he'd been mesmerized by earlier. 

"Let me just say hi to the director of the animal rescue."

Dean goes to check on Jorge and Paula at the food station, but they have plenty of product and know how to clean up and where to put the equipment at the end of the night. He waves to Cas across the room, shakes Dr. F's hand and reminds him to come to the shop soon, then waits for Sam by the front door. It's not long before Sam joins him, and they walk out into the night air, the sounds of the party fading behind them as they walk toward the parking lot on the corner of the block.

"Beautiful night," Sam says.

Dean glances up. "We'll be able to see the stars better from our place."

"Yeah," Sam agrees. "Let's go home."

***

Thanksgiving Day Dean's slamming through the drawers and cabinets of his beautiful kitchen, muttering curses and complaining about boxes falling off the back of trucks.

"Sammy? Have you seen my strainers?"

Sam doesn't answer. He's been reorganizing books in the library all morning while Dean cooks Thanksgiving dinner. Dean goes to the foot of the stairs and tries again, calling up "Are there any kitchen boxes we missed?"

Sam pokes his head down the stairs. "The only boxes left are in the laundry room, I think."

"Okay. If I can't find my strainers, you're going to get lumpy gravy," he warns.

Sam laughs. "I'll survive, Dean."

There are indeed a few unopened boxes in the laundry room. The first one has spare motorcycle parts, which Dean needs to take down to the garage. The second one is promising, with a bunch of bubble wrap on top. He digs down, his hand closing around a small glass bottle. He pulls it out and looks at it, curious. It's a clear bottle filled with bright green chips of beach glass. He's never seen it before.

"Hey, did you find—" Sam stops in the doorway of the laundry room.

"What's this?" Dean asks, shaking the bottle lightly. The glass inside makes a tinkling sound.

"I, uh, like to pick up beach glass," Sam says. "I think that's a box of my stuff. Maybe this one has the strainers?" He pulls another one toward him.

Dean thinks back. He remembers Sam showing him rocks and shells of all kinds at the beach, but never beach glass. But wait—he does remember seeing Sam occasionally pick up some seemingly invisible item from the sand and put it in his pocket, unexamined.

He looks at the jar, and then at Sam, who's studiously not looking at him. This is important. This means something.

"Why do you collect beach glass, Sam?" He asks it casually, but he has this insane feeling that entire universes rest upon his answer.

"It's just a habit," Sam tries.

"No. Tell me. Please." Dean infuses that last word with a lifetime's worth of longing.

Sam sucks in a noisy breath. His voice drops, but Dean can hear him, clear as day. "Each piece is the same color as your eyes."

Dean moves his gaze from the bottle of glass to Sam's face. He looks miserable. And hopeful.

"My eyes?" Dean has to be sure.

"Yeah." Sam clears his throat. "My favorite color."

Dean carefully places the bottle in the nest of bubble wrap, stands in front of Sam. His hands are shaking, but he ignores them.

"Sam? Can I kiss you?"

Sam lets out a little breath of air, half gasp, half choked cry. His eyes are wide and his lips press together and he nods.

"Say it. I need you to say it."

Sam parts his lips. "Kiss me, Dean."

Dean tilts his head up, using shaking fingers to comb Sam's hair away from his face, trails those fingers over the back of Sam's neck, anchoring himself there. He closes his eyes and presses a soft kiss to Sam's mouth.

It's electric. Terrifying and new and yet—Sam smells like Sam and he opens up to him immediately, inviting Dean in.

The softness melts in an instant when all the blood in Dean's body becomes molten lava and they surge toward each other like lovers reunited after a long absence. They've never done this before, but it feels like they're picking up where they left off an age ago, an eon ago. They're acting out the most primeval of urges, an energy building between them that's big enough to power all of the Bay for a year.

All of this to say, kissing Sam is by far the best thing Dean's ever done in his life. It's the best he's ever felt. He reluctantly opens his eyes and pulls back a few inches, just to make sure. If Sam doesn't feel the same way…

Sam's cheeks are pink and his mouth glossy. His eyes burn with focus that's all for Dean. He's smiling hard, deep canyons carved out of his cheeks.

"Okay," Dean says.

"Okay." Sam bites his lip and fuck if Dean doesn't think it's the most adorable thing he's ever seen. "Do we need to talk?"

"We will talk. Soon. I have a turkey in the oven, so…" Thanksgiving can go screw itself as far as Dean is concerned, but they probably shouldn't rush anything.

"Right. Turkey. You baste and I'll look for the strainers. And then later, we'll talk." Sam's smile turns soft and Dean's knees turn to mush.

Dean licks his lips. "Yeah. Okay. Good plan." He wants to kiss Sam again, just so he knows he wasn't hallucinating, but Sam beats him to it.


	22. Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Sam talk.(!)

The fire pit has burned down to a soft glow. Dean's full of turkey and stuffing and even non-lumpy gravy, since Sam found the strainers in a box marked office supplies. The leftovers have been put away and the kitchen wiped down. He and Sam had gotten a little distracted at various points during the day with pushing each other against the counters and making out until a timer for something or other went off, but they managed to cook and clean up somehow. Now they're sitting side by side in their patio chairs, the first purchase they made for their new house, fingers tangled together as they breathe in sync, a blanket of stars above them.

"So. You wanna talk?" Dean says lazily.

"We're not exactly big talkers, are we?" Sam says.

"I don't know. I talk to my therapists," Dean says. "And I have a feeling you talk to yours, too."

"Uh. Yeah. I think I almost gave poor Dr. F a heart attack at my first session. I went in there and the first thing I said was—" Sam stops short. 

Dean turns his head, locks eyes with his brother. "Come on, Sammy, don't leave me hanging."

Sam holds eye contact. "I said, 'I'm in love with Dean.'"

"Oh." Dean's heart feels like it might burst with joy. He can't help the smile that spreads across his face. "You said that?"

"I did."

Dean starts to laugh. Sam frowns. "What?"

"It's just, goddamn Cas. He was right. He told me—he told me 'everything is going to be okay.' He knew. I don't know how, but he knew you and I—I'm in love with you, too, by the way." Dean can't get over it. Everyone was trying to tell them all this time that they wanted the same thing. They wanted each other.

"You are?" Sam says.

"Course, Sammy. I love you." He can't believe he can say it without needing to breathe into a paper bag, but there's four years of therapy under his belt and he barely has to take an extra breath before he adds, "Every possible way there is to love another person. And maybe some impossible ways, too."

"You don't know how fucking happy I am to hear you say that."

Sam keeps talking, the words spilling out of him fast and fierce. The fire is dying down to embers, but Dean's warmed by the sweep of Sam's fingers across his knuckles, by his smile, by the wonder in his eyes as he talks.

"Jess—fuck, she was so amazing. She knew how I felt. I told her after we broke up that it wasn't her fault we weren't going to make it, but it wasn't fair to her to keep pretending I didn't want someone else more. But she understood. She didn't judge me. She wanted me to be able to stand on my own, so that my life didn't have to revolve around you. That year in Italy, I missed you so much. It was like my heart didn't make the trip with me."

Dean's stunned. He didn't think it was possible to feel more for his brother than he already did, but he's beginning to realize that this is just the beginning for them. All this time, Sam's had these feelings, and Dean had no idea. He wants to know everything. He wants to make up for the years of pretending that they both didn't want the same thing.

"So you've known…wait, when did you know?" Dean asks.

"One some level, always. One the level where I knew that it wasn't hero worship or hormones or whatever…it was senior year of high school. Remember Zack, my friend who came out as bi?"

Dean remembers a slight, dark-haired kid with braces and nods.

"He—I never told you this because I was obviously extremely insecure and an idiot—but he had a huge crush on you."

"Seriously?" Back then Dean had been so wrapped up in working enough to put food on the table and making sure that Sam's college applications were in that he didn't have the bandwidth to register some teenager's crush.

"And he'd go on and on about your eyes and your hands and your car and what he'd do to you in it and I'd just get so depressed because I knew that I would never be someone you saw the way Zack saw you. I'd never met anyone who could make me feel like you. And even back then I kind of knew I never would."

Sam talks about fantasies and jealousy and wondering if Dean could ever feel the same way, and knowing Dean didn't date and feeling like it was both strange and also maybe because he felt the same way Sam did.

"I thought maybe therapy would help you figure out that you were in love with me, too. I was nineteen and harboring all these stupid romantic ideas. But then you went and you immediately started dating Aaron and I figured I'd been wrong. You seemed to like therapy, which was great. I mean, when you came out to me…I was so proud of you, Dean," Sam smiles, then his smile turns sad. "I was also kind of crushed, because you were gay, but not broken, like me. Seeing you with Aaron was tough. I felt like you'd gotten me out of the house and replaced me."

"Jesus, Sam, never." So many years they wasted by being afraid to talk about this. Of course, if Sam had come to him back then and said some of this stuff, Dean has to admit he probably wouldn't have been ready to hear it.

Sam sighs. "I told myself that was good, because I needed to have a life apart from you if I was ever going to make it as a functional person, and that you needed a chance to have a life of your own, too. So…Jess happened. But it was always like I had this piece missing, and I could fill it for a while by studying really hard or trying to fit in with Jess's family or traveling halfway around the world and being with other people, but it never lasted. And to be honest, I didn't want it to last. I didn't want to fall out of love with you."

Dean jerks his head up at that. "You didn't?"

"I knew it was hopeless, and it might mean that I'd have to watch while you fell in love with someone else. I knew that would hurt so bad. But I still couldn't ever bring myself to wish I didn't feel the way I did. I mean, you're so—" Sam just stares at Dean until Dean feels a flush climb up his cheeks.

"I'm so what?"

"Strong. Beautiful. God, Dean, do you know how incredibly beautiful you are? You…you just glow."

Dean almost feel like someone who deserves Sam's adoration when he sees the truth shining out of Sam's eyes.

"So when Jess died, I panicked, because the only other person who knew how I felt was gone, and did that mean it wasn't real? All I could think about was being near you, because you're the only thing I've ever been able to count on. I wasn't in a good place, obviously, and then you saved my life—again. You told me to talk to Dr. F." Sam laughs and squeezes Dean's hand.

"I swear I didn't go to him intending to spill my heart out all over his office, but I couldn't keep it inside anymore and telling him seemed like a way better idea than just gushing everything out to you and having to endure you shooting me down. But the way he reacted—it was kind of incredible. He was surprised, but also kind of not? I don't know if you ever said anything to him—" 

Dean shakes his head no. 

"—but either way, he didn't judge me. Over time I started to think that maybe I wasn't broken. That maybe I was made this way. And now I'm certain of it, Dean. I was made to love you. I realized that that's all I needed to do."

"Sam." Dean's heart is so full with Sam's words.

"Talking with Dr. F made me certain that I wanted to be in your life. I wanted us to live together because we've always been better together than apart. And then you broke up with Ezekiel and I thought—I wasn't exactly able to read your mind. But I thought maybe loving me might be what you'd been doing all along, too. Dr. F thought I'd feel better if I told you. He's kind of been encouraging me to just talk it over with you. I've been biding my time. Scared, I guess."

The more Dean listens to what Sam says, the more he feels like he's looking into a mirror. All of his feelings, the angst, the longing, the feeling of wrongness when they were apart and trying to deny it—they're all there. Sam processes things differently, he deals with them differently, but Dean's beginning to see that everything he's felt for his little brother is what Sam's felt for his big brother. It's humbling, and freeing. It was a different path for both of them to figure out their feelings, but they ended up in the same place—wanting and scared to mess up by asking for what they wanted.

If he can spare Sam one more second of angst by giving him what he wants—he'll do it in the blink of an eye. That what Sam wants is what Dean wants is just the magical cherry on the top of the sundae of the life they're building together.

"Oh my god, Sammy, I was so scared. Cas wanted me to do the same thing. I guess they could see what we couldn't?"

"I guess they did." Sam's expression turns serious. "I want you to know, Dean, that if this is all you want, to live together and just…be together…that's all I need. We don't have to do anything you aren't comfortable with. Seriously. I want whatever you want."

Dean had made peace with only having Sam in a limited way. He has the pie shop, he has this gorgeous house that Sam made possible. He lives with his favorite person sleeping a few feet away, who wants to spend Sunday mornings and Friday nights and holidays with him and do domestic shit like gardening and walking their hypothetical future dog together. He already feels like he's been given the world. It seems greedy to ask for more.

And yet.

"Everything you've said—same goes, Sam. Same goes. I want whatever you want. I want _you_ , period. We've wanted each other for a really long time. So, are we going to keep talking, or are we actually going to give each other what we want?" He says the last part like he's issuing a challenge.

Sam's back straightens in response. "I'll give you anything, Dean."

Dean licks his lips. "Then let's go to bed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be posting one chapter a day until I finish this thing. <3


	23. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Sam go to bed. Then they go to the pie shop and make some decisions.

"Can we go to your room?" Sam asks as they make their way slowly downstairs, hand in hand.

"Your bed is bigger."

"I know. I like being close to you."

Dean has to tip his head back to look into Sam's eyes. His little brother is all grown up. He's filled out even more in the last few months, has been talking about turning the little office downstairs into a gym. But right now, big-eyed and hopeful he reminds Dean of the little kid who used to snuggle against Dean on squeaky double beds in anonymous motel rooms, who never complained once about their sleeping arrangements from the moment they struck out on their own. Dean wants to wrap him up in a warm blanket, tuck him against his side, and keep him safe and warm forever. 

"I sleep better when we're in the same room," Sam says, a little shyly.

"You do?" Dean shouldn't be surprised at this point. Almost everything's Sam's said today has been an echo of how Dean feels.

"It took me forever to get used to sleeping apart from you in college. Maybe I never really got the hang of it."

"Is it okay if I say I'd like you to sleep in my bed every night from now on?" Dean's gotten better at asking for what he wants after so many years of therapy, but he's never really let himself practice that with Sam, for fear of what he might accidentally ask for. But Sam's eyes just get even bigger, if possible, and he nods.

"That's okay," Sam says. "So, let's go."

They take turns in the bathroom. Dean gets a flash of a future where they'll step into the shower together, soap each other up, kiss under the hot spray of water. But tonight they just clean up. Dean washes the smell of turkey grease off himself, steps into his bedroom wrapped in a towel. Sam's already in his—their?—bed, under the covers. He might have boxers or something on, but he's not wearing a shirt. Dean has trouble swallowing. He glances away from Sam's chest nervously.

"It's okay, Dean. You can look. If you want." Sam's voice is soft but sure.

Right. He's allowed. Sam's giving him his consent. Jesus. He goes to his dresser, hesitates in front of it. He doesn't know how to do this. He's only ever been with Aaron and Zeke and he let them take the lead, especially early in the relationship. His mind sticks on that word. Relationship. He and Sam already have a relationship. They're brothers. But this is completely new territory.

"Dean, stop thinking and come to bed. We can just go to sleep, if you want. Or—"

"Or?"

"Or you can come to bed and kiss me and then we'll see."

Dean grabs a pair of boxers from the drawer but doesn't put them on. He sets them on his night table, drops the towel and climbs under the covers quickly. It's a queen-sized bed, and they've shared it before, not that long ago at that, but this is so different.

Sam turns to face Dean, propped up on his elbow. "Hey."

"Hey."

"So, there's nothing you can do or say to me that's going to make me change my mind about how I feel about you. There's nothing you have to do or say. I just want you to do what you feel comfortable with, and trust me to tell you if I need something different, just like I'm going to trust you to tell me if you need me to do something different. Can you do that?"

Dean bites his lower lip. There's so much he wants, but yeah, Sam's not wrong if he thinks Dean's not overthinking and talking himself out of every single damn one right now.

"I trust you," Dean says finally. "Is it okay to touch you?"

"Please touch me."

Dean reaches out, tracing Sam's jaw with his fingers, swiping his thumb over Sam's lips. "God, Sammy, you're so—"

Sam's eyes are wide again, his body held still as Dean strokes his face lightly.

Dean can't finish the thought. It's too big. Instead, he shifts closer, running his hand along the column of Sam's throat, across his pecs, passing over the pebbles of Sam's nipples. Sam twitches, and Dean does it again. Suddenly, Dean needs more contact. He reaches around Sam's head to pull the pillow out from beneath him and lowers Sam down to the mattress, then moves to straddle Sam's hips. He's wearing boxers and Dean's naked, but his own hardening dick is an afterthought. He leans over, Sam stretched out beneath him, presses their chests together, just breathing, skin to skin. Sam sighs a little, and then squirms, and Dean can feel him getting hard too. He smooths Sam's hair away from his forehead, needing Sam to know this, above all else.

"I love you so much," he says, staring down into Sam's eyes. "My baby brother."

Sam moans, a full body shudder rolling through him. His cock pulses where it's trapped between Sam's boxers and Dean's legs. His pupils are nearly to the edge of his irises. Dean's in awe at how turned on Sam seems to be.

"You like that?" Dean asks, stroking Sam's hair again, fingering one of Sam's nipples with his other hand, the rest of him pressed as close to Sam as he can get, not moving, just luxuriating in the feel of Sam's body. "Which part?"

"All of it," Sam rasps, as if his vocal cords had a run in with one of Dean's microplane graters.

Dean kisses Sam's cheeks, his eyelids, his earlobes, punctuating each kiss with a word. "I. Love. You. So. Much. My. Baby. Brother." On "brother" Sam stiffens and comes.

Dean watches as Sam thrashes through his orgasm, cataloging Sam's open mouth and arched neck, the flush on his cheeks, and how goddamn beautiful he is. When Sam settles down, he finds Dean's gaze with his own, blinks at him. Then he surges up, locking his lips onto Dean's, thrusting his tongue into Dean's mouth, licking into it, until Dean's groaning and grinding himself onto Sam's damp boxer shorts. 

Suddenly, his cock is wrapped in a giant's paw, the pressure and speed exactly right for pushing him over the edge. He tears himself away from Sam's kiss long enough to look down. The sight of Sam's hand jacking him, firm and purposeful, is enough to make Dean's own orgasm tear through him. He's unable to keep his eyes open as the feeling floods his nervous system, but he's aware enough to feel the slide when his come spurts over his dick, through Sam's fingers, coating them both sticky and hot. When he opens his eyes again Sam's staring at the sight of Dean's still twitching cock, the mess on his hands. He looks hungry. 

Dean shudders and then laughs weakly. "Oh my god. I think I need to call in sick tomorrow, because we're going to need to do all of that again about fifty times."

"Sounds like a plan."

***

The day after Thanksgiving Dean does indeed call in sick. The shop's open, but it's usually pretty slow, so his employees can handle it. Sam's off until Monday. Cas and Dean had already arranged to skip this week's session because of the holiday. 

The day is a bubble, time out from the real world. Dean and Sam spend the day in bed, exploring each other with intense attention to detail, stopping only to rehydrate and refuel on leftovers.

Dean learns that Sam has essentially two modes in bed—politely pliant and politely aggressive—and Dean likes both of them. He also finds that sex with someone a little taller and a little stronger than him isn't bad at all—he trusts Sam more than he even trusts himself, so it's not scary to let Sam move him around, to press him down into the bed, to envelop him in warm skin, to let him have free reign. Dean's body feels like extension of Sam's. Everything they do together feels natural. There's nothing awkward about it.

Dean feels like he won the lottery; he fell in love with the most beautiful person in the world. Sam's stretched out naked on the sheets and Dean doesn't have to look away, he doesn't have to berate himself for finding Sam utterly gorgeous. Sam wants him to look. Sam wants _him_. It's all too much to have hoped for.

The day, touching, licking, kissing, bringing each other pleasure over and over again, goes by way too quickly.

Dean drops a kiss on Sam's head, gets up as dusk is falling. "I'll make us some dinner."

"'K," Sam replies weakly. "I think you broke me with that last blow job, but I'll come help."

"Take your time," Dean says. He has no idea how long this honeymoon period is going to last, but he doesn't care. It's Sam in his bed. _Sam_. His heart is a helium balloon threatening to carry him off into the ether.

As he puts together a simple meal of soup and grilled cheese—he's had enough turkey for while—he thinks how amazing today has been. Its never been this easy and hot. Aaron was easy, because there were no stakes. Zeke was hot, but he wasn't Dean's entire world. He could never hold Dean's heart the way Sam can, making their being together the most natural thing in the world, and also the most intensely terrifying thing as well. 

Sam shuffles into the kitchen just as Dean's plating the grilled cheese.

"Want something to drink?" Dean asks, as he sets the plates on the kitchen island where they have two barstools set up for informal meals.

"You know what sounds really incredible?" Sam wraps his arms around Dean from behind, giving him a full body hug, Sam's front to Dean's back. Dean presses back into him, relishing the contact, barely listening to what Sam's saying over the beat of his heart telling him this is where he wants to be for the rest of his life. "Chocolate milk."

"Chocolate milk," Dean repeats. "Really?"

"Yeah." Sam laughs. "You used to make it for me, remember? At about quadruple strength as whatever it says on the package."

Dean does remember. He laughs. "That stuff is all chemicals," he says. "Give me five minutes and I'll make you something even better."

He can feel Sam shrug against him, then peel away slowly. "I've got five minutes."

Dean melts a bar of his favorite bittersweet chocolate in one saucepan while he heats some milk and sugar in another and gets out his immersion blender. Pretty soon he's got frothy, fragrant hot chocolate poured into two mugs. He puts one in front of Sam. "Sorry, we're out of moosemallows, kiddo."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Seriously. Are you ever going to let me live that down?" Sam had once tried to say marshmallows when he was was about six years old, and, lisping due to lost baby teeth, out came "moosemallows."

"Never," Dean promises. Then he winks, and Sam blushes. 

The hot chocolate goes down thick and rich. The grilled cheese is the right amount of gooey, the soup savory and warm. It's the best meal Dean's ever tasted, in the kitchen of the house Sam bought for them, his brother safe and happy at his side.

Sam says Dean's name and he looks over, just in time to catch Sam's kiss. He tastes like chocolate, his mouth warm and sweet. Sam kisses him for a long time and when he pulls away, Dean's seeing stars.

"Thanks for dinner, Dean."

Dean has to clear his throat. Is it possible to die from happiness? "Sure thing, Sam."

***

The next day Dean reluctantly goes into work for a half day. Sam comes with him, as if he can't stand the idea of being apart from Dean for even a few hours either. But as soon as they arrive, having spent the drive over holding hands except for when Dean needed to shift gears, and then making out in the car for about five minutes before getting out, Dean realizes they have a problem.

They may have made their own peace with the fact that they're in love and also brothers, their therapists may have given them tacit, or even explicit approval, in Cas's case. But to the rest of the world, they're nothing more than codependent siblings who happen to live together, and that's all they ever can be.

It's hard walking into the kitchen and greeting Edgar and Lydia without wanting to proclaim to them that he's deliriously happy. He can't press Sam up against the register and sexually harass him in between customers. They can't be everything they are to each other, all the time.

Dean's gay. He knows what it's like not to be able to publicly express how he feels about someone whenever he wants, without being hyper aware of his surroundings and how people are going to react. But this is different. It brings him back down to earth with a bump.

Sam must see something on his face as they come into the front of the house and start helping Gina wait on customers, because as soon as the shop empties out and Gina goes to the back to restock, he sidles up to Dean. "You okay?"

Dean shrugs. "I guess I didn't think this all the way through. You and me and like, the rest of the world."

"Yeah. It kind of sucks, right?"

"I don't know what to do."

"It's just going to take some getting used to. I mean, we knew we wouldn't be able to exactly tell people."

"Right." Dean had been so caught up in what he was allowed to do now, he hadn't thought about what they'd never be allowed to do. But still, he'd rather have Sam in all ways in the privacy of their own home than not at all.

He's trying to focus on the December dairy order, but Sam's making it really hard the way he's bent over cleaning up a spill in the corner of the of the refrigerated cases. Hard. Yeah. He's making it real hard. Dean snickers at his own immature joke.

"Yo, Dean, think you could stop ogling your boy and get me an English Breakfast? The store is super slow and I'm falling asleep over there."

Dean whips his head up to make eye contact with Charlie, who's standing in the otherwise empty shop with a playful curl on her lips. He'd cleared the whole "Sam's not my boyfriend but my brother" thing up a while ago, but Charlie had just rolled her eyes and still makes jokes from time to time. Dean never bothers correcting her.

"Tea. Right. Sure. No problem." He gets the tea on auto pilot, mentally cursing himself. He's seriously got to be more careful. Cas knowing is one thing, but Charlie or—what if Bobby found out? The old man had been talking about coming out for the holidays. If he comes to stay at the house, they won't even be able to sleep in the same bed while he's there. 

"Hey, Charlie," Sam says easily once he's done with his cleaning job. "How are things?"

"Same old, Sam. You?"

"Things are good." Dean sees Sam glance his way out of the corner of his eye. "Real good."

Dean's happy, but he's also kind of bumming himself out. He hands Charlie her tea. "You want something sweet with that?"

"Don't tempt me. That pecan pie I brought for Friendsgiving was a huge hit, but I'm still full."

"Fair enough."

"Well, I'm glad you're good, Sam. Dean? You want to come by before you leave today? I got in a new _Hellraiser_ poster I want to show you."

"Sure."

The minute Charlie's gone his shoulders sag. He feels Sam's warmth at his side.

"It's going to be okay, Dean. We'll figure something out."

Dean really wants to believe that he can have the life he's worked so hard to build and Sam, too.

Charlie's with a customer when Dean wanders in. Sam said he'd hold down the fort until Sarah comes in for the afternoon shift. Dean looks at the new releases, leafs through a Batman comic. The door chimes as the customer leaves, and Dean comes and leans on the counter, pretending everything isn't shitty.

"Are you and Sam having a fight?" Charlie asks. "You kind of look sad."

Dean looks his friend in the eye, wishes he could just tell her and be sure that she'd still be his friend afterward. Charlie's a cool person, and she gets how hard it can be to be out. But Dean doesn't want to be one of those cautionary tales that homophobes use to prove their twisted points that gay people are actually into incest and bestiality and all that nonsense. Cas had explained it to him once, that their society's taboos were useful to protect people from predators, to ensure that consent could be given. "But it was legal in our society for a person to rape their spouse until extremely recently, and that's unequivocally wrong. Whatever happens consensually between two people who are actually able to give consent should be no one else's concern." Dean gets all of that intellectually, but it's different when you have to look a friend in the eye and tell them you're in love with your brother.

Still, they're one day into this new reality and he's already feeling the panic of not being able to give Sam anything close to the normal life he always wanted for him. He should call Cas. Maybe he needs to go in for a session. Hell, maybe he and Sam should go together. Maybe—

"What's wrong, Dean?" Charlie asks again, without any of her usual attitude. She sounds genuinely concerned.

"You know how I told you that Sam and I…" he trails off, swallows. "Are brothers?"

"Yeah." Charlie holds his gaze.

"What if I told you that we…we're together?" Somehow he gets the last word through his lips.

Charlie squints at him as if he's a puzzle she's trying to figure out. "And?"

"And…well." He looks at her unhappily.

"Sweetie, it's no one's business if you are Sam are together, live together, everything together." Charlie sounds strangely matter-of-fact and non-judgmental. "You know, there's that case winding its way through the courts, so same-sex marriage is probably going to be legal in California soon."

"Huh?"

"Besides, I'm pretty sure no one really buys the brothers thing, anyway. I mean, you guys are both gorgeous, but you look nothing like each other. Seriously."

Dean's confusion slowly resolves itself as he realizes that Charlie, who's only known the two of them for six months, thinks that being brothers is the lie. "No, we…" He stops himself from explaining. Maybe it's better this way.

"I mean, I know you told me your parents died and you raised him on your own and everything, but I just figured one or both of you had to get away from a bad situation and so you started over out here using the brothers thing as a cover."

"A bad situation," Dean echoes. She's not wrong, exactly. He thinks it over. Jesus. Could this version of their life really work? Charlie's pretty new in town, but what about all the people who know Sam from growing up? His high school friends and his teachers. He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. It's not like they exactly see those people all the time. Petaluma's small, but it's not so small that they're tripping over old acquaintances every day. The more he considers it, the more he thinks it's kind of crazy, but it might work.

It's still a lie. But it's one that feels more true than if they just kept on as they were. He doesn't know if he can ask Sam to pretend that they aren't really brothers, though. He's proud to have Sam for his brother. He decides to bring it up later, in an actual conversation, like the totally functional grownup he is.

In the meantime, he leans over the counter and gives Charlie a brief hug. "Thanks, Charlie. You're the best."

"I know."

***

When he and Sam get home from the pie shop, Sam immediately backs Dean up against the door to their bedroom. They barely make it inside before Sam's dropping to his knees and getting his mouth on Dean's cock.

"Jesus, fuck, Sam." Dean pants and watches as Sam looks up at him through his bangs as he sucks, and the sight of that alone nearly make Dean come. What finally does it, though, is the pressure on his hole from Sam's index finger, steady and firm at the same time Dean's knocking into the back of Sam's throat with the head of his dick. Dean shoots down Sam's throat and Sam groans, sucking everything down, frantically unbuttoning his own jeans. Dean's out of it but not too out of it to register Sam giving himself half a dozen strokes before he groans and comes on the hardwood floor of their bedroom.

"Come on." Dean hauls Sam to his feet and they flop down on the bed together. Dean shifts close enough to kiss Sam long and deep, tasting himself on his brother's tongue. "Fuck."

"Yeah." Sam sighs happily. "It was so hard not to drag you to the bathroom at the shop and do that."

"Yeah, um. About that. Well not that, because I probably shouldn't do that anyway, seeing as it sets a bad example for my employees and everything, but about, the other stuff…"

"Yes?"

Dean's still not quite used to being as open with Sam as he is during his sessions. "I talked to Charlie today and I tried to tell her that we were together now."

"You did?" Sam's eyebrows rise.

"Yeah, I probably should have talked to you about it first, now that I think about it." Dean looks over to see if Sam's mad, but he just motions for Dean to keep going. "And she basically always thought we were, and when I told her we were brothers she assumed it was some kind of beard thing. She doesn't think we are brothers—says we don't look anything alike."

He checks Sam's reaction. 

"Well, you are kinda shrimpy compared to me, so."

"Shut up." Dean smiles at the weak dig anyway. "Seriously, she knows us and she thinks we're a couple and that we're not brothers and I don't think I really want to set her straight, you know?"

"So what are you saying?"

"What if we just kind of let the brothers thing fade away? I mean, how many people are we that close to anyway? I mean, obviously Dr. F and Cas and Anna and Bobby know. I guess we can't tell Bobby. But to everyone else, we could just be Dean and Sam, obnoxiously happy gay lovers."

Sam doesn't laugh. He gets a line between his eyebrows as he thinks it over. "So you don't want to tell people we're brothers anymore?"

Dean sighs. "It's hard, Sam. I love being your brother."

"Me too," Sam's voice is a little rough. "But you know what—we'll know. And what you're talking about—it's not going to be a walk in the park. It's not like everyone is going to be super accepting of us anyway. But I'd rather be able to just be with you in public without having to put on some no-homo act all the time."

"You would?" Dean's relieved and excited and scared.

"Yeah. And besides, we're still Winchesters."

"Winchesters for life," Dean says, smiling and kissing Sam.

"And beyond," Sam says, kissing him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's [Dean's hot chocolate recipe](https://food52.com/recipes/33540-dorie-greenspan-s-hot-and-cold-chocolate) if you are interested.


	24. Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam asks Dean to do something. They talk about law school.

"So do you think it's stupid and risky?" Dean stares at Cas at their next session, having told him the short version of his and Sam's mutual realization that they were all the other wanted. He'd quickly followed Cas's sincere congratulations and generous restraint in not saying "I told you so" by explaining the tack he and Sam want to take with the world at large.

"You and Sam would like to be able to be a couple in the world outside of your own private bubble. I think that's a perfectly natural desire and I think that if you're comfortable with the parameters you're setting up for yourself, you should do it."

"Yeah?"

"Dean, you and Sam have been through far worse than a little societal disapproval. You're survivors. And something tells me that if you stick together and take this on together, you can make it work."

Together. Dean likes the sound of that.

"Well, I'm sure it's not all going to be sunshine and roses but I gotta say, Cas, I've never—I mean, he's…he loves me, Cas. Like I love him."

Cas's big smile is back. "I wish you two all the best, Dean."

"Do you think it's a good idea for us to do some sessions together? I mean, so far everything's going pretty well, but I don't want to fuck this up."

"Couples counseling can be a useful tool for any couple. It's always nice to have a forum to discuss things you might not make time to examine in daily life."

"So, will you do it?"

"Let me think about it." They decide to keep up the weekly sessions for the moment, and Dean reminds Cas about the housewarming party at the end of the month. "Anna already signed you up to bring pasta salad."

***

The transition at work, which has the highest concentration of people who know Dean and Sam as brothers, goes better than Dean hoped it would. He still hates lying outright, so he avoids it when it can, but he tells his employees one by one in private that he and Sam are dating, that when they moved here as teenagers to get away from a bad living situation they told people they were brothers to make it easier. Everyone seems to accept that, and more than that, they seem happy for him. Edgar shakes Dean's hand and gives Sam an extra big smile the next time he sees him. Lydia and Gina just rolls their eyes as if he's not telling them something they don't know. Sarah, his general manager, basically couldn't care less, just wants to know what he thinks of her plans to expand the catering side of the business in the new year. He supposes it doesn't hurt that he gives them all a raise for the new year and a holiday bonus at the same time, but still, it's basically a non-issue, and now if he and Sam are standing too close once in a while he doesn't feel like he has a scarlet I on his chest.

Christmas is coming barreling down the tracks and pretty soon Dean's too busy to worry about anything but filling orders, coming home to Sam at the end of every long day, eating takeout and then falling into bed for some sleepy groping. Sometimes he's so tired they just fall asleep cuddling. Dean hasn't slept so soundly in years.

The only thing stressing Dean out, besides getting the menu right for their New-Year's-Eve-slash-housewarming party, is that Bobby's driving out and due to arrive on Christmas Eve. It's not that Dean doesn't want to see him—even though he'd just been out in February, Dean's excited to show off their new place and some of the changes at the pie shop—it's just going to be really hard to keep things between him and Sam on the downlow the entire time he's here. They even bought a fancy convertible couch-bed thing for some outrageous price for the library so they can maintain the fiction that Sam and Dean need separate bedrooms. The whole thing just feels wrong.

"I suppose we could try to tell him?" Sam says one night after they climb under the covers and take up their now-usual position of Sam's head snugged up against Dean's chest, so Dean can run his fingers through Sam's hair in a soothing repetitive motion that puts them both to sleep.

"I don't know, man. He's known us since forever—he's our only family. I just don't see that going very well."

"Are you scared that if he doesn't accept the way things are between us it means we're doing something wrong? Or because it'll mean maybe he won't be in our lives anymore?"

"You think if we give him a chance to get on board and he can't take it, that means we shouldn't try to make things work with him?"

Sam shifts closer to Dean, if possible. "I don't know. I love Bobby. He loves us, I'm sure. But if we have to lie about who we are to the person who arguably's the closest to us in the entire world, that's not good." Sam sighs. "It's not like we have to be all over each other in front of him. I mean, we're not like that in front of anyone, because that's not us."

Dean huffs at that. Sam's actually pretty fucking handsy, to his surprise. But yeah, only when it's just the two of them. Mostly.

Sam goes on. "We don't have to give him a big speech or anything. Maybe we just act normal." Dean huffs again and Sam laughs a little, too. "Well, normal for us."

"Normal for us. It's worth a shot." Dean has to remind himself that even if they lose Bobby, he's still got Sam.

Sam picks up his head and looks at Dean. "Hey, so I wanted to ask if you would do something for me."

"Anything you want, Sammy." Dean smiles the slow, sexy smile that always gets Sam's cheeks to pink up a little and he's not disappointed in Sam's reaction. His cheeks go rosy and his dimples show and he licks his lips.

"Would you fuck me? Please?"

Dean's cock reacts before his brain does, filling to almost painful hardness before he can open his mouth to respond. "Like, right now?"

"If you want. Yeah."

This thing between them is still new, but they've covered a lot of ground. They've jerked each other off, given each other blow jobs, fingered and frotted and even rimmed each other. But Dean's hesitated to take the next step. It's something he wants more than air, but it's also Sam—it has to be good. Sam has to like it. It's kind of a lot of pressure.

"You don't want to," Sam says, when Dean doesn't respond. "That's okay. I really don't want you to do anything you don't—"

"Jesus Christ, of course I want to," Dean says. "I think about it way too—" He stops when he sees the forlorn smile on Sam's face turn smug. "Never mind. I do want to. Are you sure you're ready?"

"Dean, I've wanted you to fuck me since I was sixteen. You had your tongue up my ass last night. I'm ready."

"Okay, fine. Bossy."

They take their time. Dean uses about half a bottle of lube getting Sam opened and ready. They exchange long kisses that make Dean feel pleasantly high on endorphins and leave Sam's mouth red and swollen.

"What do you like?" Dean asks, when he deems Sam prepped enough. "You wanna be on top?"

"No, I think I want you to be, if that's okay." Sam arranges himself on the bed, long legs bent up so his feet are flat on the mattress, his beautiful cock thick and flushed and flat against his belly, pointing toward his chest, his hole glistening wet with the lube. He looks fucking edible, and Dean wishes he'd jerked off earlier to take the edge off, because he has a feeling he's not going to last long.

"Please, just, I need to feel you, okay?" Sam's panting, his eyes slits, his hands wandering the sheets, as if he's afraid to touch himself.

"It's okay, I'm going to take care of you," Dean says. He lines himself up, gives Sam one last searing kiss, then pushes in, slow and steady, checking Sam's face for signs of discomfort, but he's just lifting his hips as if to get Dean as deep as possible. He bottoms out, Sam's tight heat around him. He takes a moment to breathe. They're joined together in the most intimate of ways, and it still doesn't feel close enough. He leans down and Sam cranes his neck up and they kiss, Sam's cock trapped between them, Dean's whole body on fire with the urge to snap his hips and take Sam, fast and hard.

"Yeah," Sam says, reading his mind. "Hard. Please."

And Dean can't refuse him. Not in this. Not in anything. He moves more quickly, building a rhythm, reveling in Sam's moans and movements, in the way Sam seems to want to throw back his head and give in to the pleasure, but keeps his eyes fixed on Dean's no matter what. That fearless focus gives Dean strength. It makes him certain that this is more than right—it's sacred, somehow. It's more than sex, more than love. It's them, two halves of a whole, two bodies with one soul. Dean comes the second he feels Sam's spend slippery between them. He roars through his orgasm with his brother's taste on his tongue and his name on his lips. Sam everywhere, all around him. Dean would be happy to live inside this bubble of him-and-Sam forever.

He stills and tries to catch his breath. Sam's smiling so hard he looks drunk.

Dean pulls out carefully, grabs a handful of tissues to mop up their various messes. "So what's the verdict, Sammy?"

"I fucking love your cock inside me," Sam says, pulling Dean's arm to get him to lay down.

Dean throws the comforter over them, turns out the lamp next to his side of the bed. "That's convenient because I fucking love having my cock inside you."

The darkness cocoons them, their breathing the only sound for a while. Dean thinks Sam might have fallen asleep, but then—"Next time, it's my turn."

Dean doesn't breathe for a few long seconds.

"Dean?"

He doesn't answer and eventually Sam's breathing evens out. It takes Dean a long time to fall asleep.

***

They get a real Christmas tree and set it up in the library. In years past they've done tiny store-bought ones, but this is the first year their tree is like, tree-sized. Dean would have been good with going to a tree lot or even Walmart and grabbing a cut tree, but Sam really wants an actual, alive tree that they can plant on their property after the holiday is over. It's a little sparser than a cut tree, but with the brand-new strings of lights and an obscene amount of random ornaments that Dean did buy at Walmart, it looks pretty perfect, and it smells amazing.

There's a steadily growing pile of gifts underneath, too. Cas had thrust a silver wrapped package at him at their last session of the year, which Dean carefully placed under the tree. Charlie gave them something, too, in a tell-tale tube shape, but Dean had refrained from opening it. Sam's boss gave him a bottle of wine. Dean's put his gift to Bobby under there already, and a couple of little things for Sam, though he's waiting to bring out his big present until Christmas morning.

All in all, Dean's feeling the Christmas spirit all over the place. He finds himself humming actual Christmas songs under his breath at work, which is mortifying when Sarah catches him. "Wham! Really?"

"What? George Michael is legit," he says grumpily.

She just shakes her head and tells him they're out of Mr. Mint pie again. Chocolate and mint isn't Dean's personal favorite combination, but the Candyland-inspired pie has been a swift seller this season.

"I'll tell Lydia to up tomorrow's numbers."

When he gets home later that night, Sam's already there, calling down from the library that there's enchiladas in the oven and he'll be down in a minute.

Dean opens the oven door to check on the enchiladas, which are ones he'd made and frozen a few weeks ago. He grabs them two beers and opens his while thumbing through the small stack of mail on the island. Nestled between the bills and his motorcycle magazine is a letter from UCLA Law. His next sip of beer goes down hard.

Sam gallops down the stairs from the library a few minutes later, eyes lighting up when he sees Dean. He pauses to give Dean a thorough welcome home kiss that almost pushes the law school letter out of Dean's head, but not quite. "Hey," Sam murmurs against Dean's lips.

"Hey."

"You ready to eat?"

"Those enchiladas need a few more minutes. I could make a salad to go with."

"Sounds good."

Dean puts together some greens and veggies. "You look at the mail today?"

"Not yet."

"Maybe you should."

Sam sits on a stool and reaches for the pile. "Oh." 

Dean hears paper tearing and a flutter as Sam smooths the letter out. He scoops diced avocado into the salad bowl and turns to face Sam.

"Put me out of my misery."

Sam jumps to his feet. "Hey, this is nothing to worry about, okay?"

"So what is it?"

"They have a spot opening second semester if I want to start then. Late January."

"Oh."

"This is actually good timing," Sam says.

Dean's heart feels bruised. He knows that Sam's plans have never explicitly changed, but he thought they were both on the same page about wanting to be together, and not long-distance together, which sounds about as much fun to him as trying to swallow an avocado pit whole.

"I haven't had time to tell them to release my spot, so this is a good reminder."

"What?"

"Law school. I'm not going."

"What? Yes you are." Dean forgets about how much he's going to miss Sam, and focuses on his future. "Law school is what you've always planned on. What you've always wanted."

"No, it's not. Dean, the reason I wanted to go to law school in the first place was because I thought it might be a way that I could help people. But I can do that in lots of ways. Here in Petaluma there's so much that needs to be done. I'm really interested in community organizing. The fundraising stuff we do at the shop is a good start, but there's way more going on here than you realize."

"But if you were a lawyer, couldn't you make an even bigger difference?"

"Maybe. I can always go back to school if I decide that's the best thing. But I don't want to right now. And I definitely don't want to move to Los Angeles. I'm not leaving you again."

Dean wants those five words tattooed on his arm, but he stubbornly argues. "Please don't make this decision because of me. I can't hold you back from whatever it is you want to do."

Sam moves to stand right in front of Dean. He reaches out and takes Dean's hands in his. 

"You could never hold me back. Everything I am and everything I might someday become, that's all because of you."

Dean shakes his head. He might have made sure there was food on the table and clean clothes to wear and that Sam was as safe as he could make him, but the rest—that's all down to Sam and his big brain and his bigger heart. He doesn't say any of that out loud, but Sam's able to read it on his face, anyhow.

Sam tightens his grip. "Don't you get it? You are the most important thing in my life. You always have been and you always will be. All our lives, you put me first. It's my turn now. I put you first. Always. And you can't stop me."

"Well." Dean clears his throat. "I could never get you to do anything you didn't want to do, anyway."

"Damn straight. I don't want to go to law school. I do want to have dinner with you, in our house, and go to sleep with you in our bed, and wake up and have coffee together and then go to work and come home and do it all again."

Sam's inched closer to Dean throughout his monologue, until they're pressed together from chest to thigh. Dean relishes the weight of Sam against him, grounding him. "Okay, I get it. No law school right now." Sam kisses him on the mouth, as if rewarding him for his acceptance. "But you have to know that as much as I want that, too, this happy little life, the coffee and the blow jobs, etcetera, you can do so much more, you can do anything. And if you need to be in Los Angeles or New York or Buenos Aires or Mumbai to do it, that's okay. We'll figure something out. I'm not saying I want you to leave." He draws in a shaky breath. "But maybe I could come with you."

Sam kisses him again, hard. "I'll keep that in mind. Right now, you're still the primary breadwinner around here. You're a successful business owner. What you've built here is really amazing. I hope you can see that and give yourself credit."

"Yeah? Well, I guess so." Dean can't help but feel that the success of Winchester Pie Company is mostly luck, but if he's really honest, he knows he's worked his ass off to make it happen. "Sarah's got a plan to expand our catering business next year. And we might start to offer more savory pies. The quiches at Anna's gallery thing were a big hit."

"You should totally do that," Sam says, kissing his way along Dean's jaw, down the side of his throat. "Quiche is hot."

Dean shudders as Sam's tongue finds the ridge of his collarbone and licks. "Yeah. Super hot."

The beep of the oven timer startles them both. "Enchiladas," Dean says a bit mournfully.

"Let's pick up where we left off after dinner."

"Deal."


	25. Protect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finally tells Sam about that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this on Valentine's Day~~~Happy Unattached Drifter Christmas! <3

The night before Bobby arrives, the night before Christmas Eve, Sam gets Dean come to bed early. In the pre-holiday rush, they've hardly seen each other since their conversation about law school. The pie shop has been slammed, and Sam's been working overtime so he can take more time off when Bobby's here. The shop is open for a half day on Christmas Eve, but then will be closed for two days and Dean can't wait for some extra sleep.

Tonight Sam, seems to have something besides sleep on his mind. He waits until Dean climbs into bed after his shower, dressed only in boxers, before climbing right on top of him.

"I know you're probably tired, but with Bobby coming tomorrow this might be the last time we can do this for a while," Sam says in that voice that sort of sounds like he's asking but he's really not.

Dean groans. He actually is really tired. He was on his feet for ten hours filling orders. But Sam's warm and hard and he's right—they might not have enough privacy for this again for a while. He kisses Sam back, whispers, "What do you want, baby brother?"

Sam full-body shudders the way he always does when Dean says that. "I want to be inside you."

Dean freezes. He can't help it. He should have been better prepared, because of course Sam would bring this up again. Why does it make him feel like he's one false step away from falling into quicksand?

"What is it?" Sam asks, sitting up on Dean's lap, putting some space between them.

"I've never—never done that," Dean says.

Sam doesn't look surprised or make a joke, or anything he might have done. He waits, and when Dean doesn't volunteer anything else he says, "Okay. Is it something you think you want to do? With me?"

"I—I think so." Dean takes a deep breath. "I never let Zeke, or Aaron, because…" 

He'd been meaning to talk to Sam about this one day. He and Cas had even gone over some scenarios of how he could talk to Sam about it. He thinks Sam needs to know. But that doesn't make it easy. 

"I have tell you something. Did you ever wonder why I never…I mean, I was twenty-three when I got together with Aaron, and there wasn't anybody before him. It wasn't that I was closeted or hated that I was gay, exactly. It was—" Dean has that feeling he had when he finally told Dr. F. He knows he has to tell Sam, but he wishes he could protect him from having to know this.

"I was raped. Two men drugged me and fucked me. And I've never been able to let myself do that with anyone else."

Sam grabs Dean's hand with his own and holds on, tight. "Oh." He sounds sad, but not shocked.

"What? Not surprised?"

"Honestly? No. It was when we were kids, right?"

Dean nods. "I was sixteen. Nashville. About a month before we left."

Sam's mouth thins out. "That motherfucking monster."

"Who?"

"Dad. John."

Dean wishes he could contradict Sam, but…yeah. He shrugs a little bit. "Did you know? Back then?"

"Not exactly. But I'm not surprised John let something like that happen to you. It probably would have happened to me, too, if you hadn't been there, putting yourself between me and him."

"Sammy." Dean's eyes fill with unwanted tears at Sam baldly stating one of Dean's worst fears.

"What? I was there, too. I remember what he was like. I remember everything, Dean. That trauma didn't magically go away after we left. I remember what he used to make us do and how you tried to protect me. How you did protect me. You've done it all my life. You saved my life and you saved yours, too."

"I did what I had to do."

"No, you did the right thing and I know how incredibly difficult it was."

Dean smiles. "Just doing my job, Sam."

Sam tilts his head. "What do you mean?"

"Mom. The night she—she gave you to me, she told me 'Take Sam. Protect him.'"

Now shock does steal over Sam's face.

"What—I never told you that before?"

"No. She gave me to you and you saved us."

"No, Mom—"

"Mom knew you could do it, but _you_ did it, Dean. You. Just you. It's always been just you."

"You and me," Dean corrects.

"Yeah. You and me." Sam surges across the inches between them and kisses Dean with a kind of raw desperation. "God, I love you so much. I want to go back in time and murder John before he let that happen to you. We would have been better off if he had been dead."

"Sammy, come on. It's okay. I survived." Dean kisses the angry tears that have appeared on Sam's cheeks. "I'm strong. We got out. And I got to keep you."

"I hated him. The happiest day I can remember from back then is the day we left. We were walking to the bus station in the middle of an ice storm and I just remember thinking I would have followed you to hell and back. Then we got to Bobby's and I was scared he'd want to split us up."

"Never. I would never have let that happen."

"I know. I know." Sam eyelashes are wet. Dean smooths out the skin beneath his brother's eyes, he kisses each of his dimples and the bow of his mouth.

"I'm never going to let anyone hurt you again," Sam says with scarily intense certainty.

"That's my line," Dean says softly.

"That's the thing, Dean. You did protect me. I'm just saying, same goes for you, too."

"All right." Every cell in Dean's body is singing with love for Sam. His fierce, angry, righteous, sexy, tender brother. "You can be my knight in shining armor."

"Damn straight."

"So, what do you say you put your lance in me?" Dean waggles his eyebrows. 

Sam doesn't laugh.

"Okay, not my best line, but not even a smile, Sammy?"

"This isn't funny. I totally understand that you don't want to bottom and I'm not going to make you, Jesus." Sam looks mildly ill.

"No, Sam. That's that not why I told you. I wanted to explain that with the other guys I've been with, I could never be in the moment enough with them to forget about what happened all those years ago. But with you, everything's different. When we're having sex, it's like…bigger than us. Bigger than just sticking a cock in a hole and moving it around until we come. You know what I mean?"

Sam nods. "I actually do. It's sort of…transcendent."

"Transcendent." Dean tries the word out. "Yeah. For real."

"So maybe someday?"

"Tonight."

"Come on, Dean, I can wait—"

"I can't. I'm done with letting that night stop me from having this. Especially with you." Dean realizes he's de-capitalized the letters of that night and it's the best feeling in the world.

"If you're sure."

"Sam Winchester. If you don't fuck me in the next five seconds—"

Sam kisses the rest of the sentence out of Dean's mouth. 

It takes considerably longer than five seconds to get ready, between the kissing and the touching, the lube and the detour in which Dean's dick ends up in Sam's mouth for a good little while, all the while Sam has three fingers plunged into Dean's ass. But eventually, Dean's straddling Sam's hips, Sam resting on a bunch of pillows so he's almost sitting all the way up. Dean's got Sam's cock in his hand and he's guiding it between his cheeks. Sam insists that he go at the pace he's comfortable with, and Dean appreciates it, because Sam's dick is not the same as three fingers. It's an almost intimidating sensation at first, but the feeling of being filled by Sam, while Sam's hands are wrapped securely around Dean's hips is too good. Dean's afraid to touch himself in case it sets him off before Sam even gets to move.

But move he does, helping Dean slide up and down. He's aware of the friction and the drag, the girth and the pressure. Sam's sweaty, gorgeous face. The way he bites his lip and groans and god Dean could replay that image on a loop til the end of his days.

"Dean, you feel so amazing." Sam's struggling for air, struggling for control. Dean likes taking Sam to the end of his willpower and pushing a little bit farther.

He sinks back down, faster this time, and Sam moans brokenly, then lifts him up and pushes him back down even more quickly, until everything's just a blur of skin and sweat and need and love and Dean doesn't even register that he's coming, he just rides the crest of the wave that is Sam inside him until Sam, too, is coming, pulsing and saying a string of words that sound like _love you so much Dean fuck I love you_ , but the ringing in Dean's ears is so loud he's can't be sure.

They're tucked together, naked and sticky but not caring. Showering is in a future when Dean's able to move his legs again. "Was it okay?" Sam asks.

"Fishing for compliments, Sammy?"

"Just making sure."

"Yeah, it was okay," Dean says casually.

"Jerk."

"It was fucking incredible."

"Better."

"And I'm glad I never did it with anyone but you."

That gets him a kiss and a happy Sam sigh. "Me, too."

"Possessive much?"

"You have no idea."

Dean grins into his pillow. He's a sucker for possessive Sam. Actually, any kind of Sam. And he feels lighter now. Being with Sam like that erased his fear that that night would haunt him forever. Now it's sliding away, the details fading like a bad dream he can no longer quite remember in its entirety.

He's got too many new, wonderful memories to keep saving room for the old ones.


	26. Housewarming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby comes for Christmas. Dean and Sam host a housewarming party.

On Christmas Eve Dean pulls onto Lebanon Drive on his motorcycle just in time to see Bobby's Chevy disappearing around the curve to their house. Bobby's just climbing out of the car when Dean brings the bike to a stop in the driveway.

"Hey, Bobby."

"Thought you'd given me the wrong address." Bobby says, staring up at their house. "'Cause this couldn't be the right place."

"It's the right place all right. Come on in. I'll give you a tour. You want to pull into the garage?" Dean flicks the garage door opener on his keychain and the automatic door retracts to show off one of his favorite parts of their place—the tidy garage with three bays and plenty of storage. The Mustang's in her spot, and Dean will slide the Indian alongside, but there's still plenty of room for Bobby's boat.

"Don't mind if I do." Bobby grins and by the time they get everything parked and talk shop about the bike and Bobby's drive out, Dean glances at his phone and realizes Bobby's been here for almost an hour and Dean hasn't let him get settled. Dean carries Bobby's duffle bag up the stairs to the lower level, pointing out the bedrooms and the little gym-in-progress, then pushing on another flight to the main floor. 

"Sammy, you around? Guess who I found."

Sam appears at the top of the stairs as they come up, wearing an apron and what looks like most of a bottle of tomato sauce. "Bobby! Welcome to Petaluma."

"I'd give you a hug, boy, but it looks like something died and you rolled around in it."

Sam glances down at himself. "Yeah, sorry. I'm trying to make dinner."

Dean's pulse kicks up. "You're cooking? In my kitchen?"

Sam winces. "Uh. Yeah. You've been working hard all week, and tomorrow you're making that roast, so I figured you wouldn't want to cook tonight."

"That's what takeout is for."

"Bobby's been on the road for three days and you want to feed him takeout?"

"Boys, no need to fight on my account," Bobby says. "If Sam wants to cook us dinner, then let him do it."

Dean had been worried about being normal-for-them with Bobby around, but right now he has no desire to kiss Sam hello. Instead, he pushes past him to inspect the damage in the kitchen. The island is absolutely covered in white flour, and there's a small avalanche of chopped vegetables on one corner threatening to fall onto the floor.

"What are you making, a baking soda volcano?"

"Come on, it's not that bad. And it's supposed to be pizza," Sam says defensively.

Dean closes his eyes and counts to ten before opening his mouth, but Bobby intervenes. "Dean, why don't you show me the rest of the place while Sam finishes up."

Dean grimaces and holds himself back from warning Sam not to hurt his precious oven. He continues with the tour. "This is the living room."

Bobby surveys the space and whistles. "Think that TV is big enough?"

Dean grins. "Biggest one they had." He climbs the stairs to the top floor. "And this is your room, while you're here." 

He puts Bobby's duffle on the convertible bed, spreads his arms out wide. The library's shelves are fairly full. They don't have as many books as the previous owners—yet—but they have a lot. Dean was surprised to see how many cookbooks he's accumulated over the years, and all his books from his business classes, plus Sam's textbooks, and a ton of novels and nonfiction books that they've amassed over time. The room looks extra cheerful with the Christmas tree and the white Christmas lights Sam put up over the French doors. 

Bobby's eyes are wide. "Damn, you're going to have a hard time getting me to leave."

"Pretty sweet, right?" Dean shows him the bathroom on this floor, and the patio and the fire pit and the yard beyond.

"It's paradise." Bobby looks at the bookshelves with interest. "Hey, this copy of _Le Morte d'Arthur_ is mine," he growls.

"You want it back? You might have to fight Sammy for it."

"Nah. It looks good in here."

Dean hadn't been sure how he would feel about Bobby being in this place that he and Sam have worked so hard to make a safe space for them. But he's glad to realize he's just happy Bobby's here. "Thanks for coming, Bobby. It's real good to see you."

"It's good to see you, too. And this place is something else. You two have done real good."

"Thanks." Dean rubs the back of his neck. "You know we couldn't have done it without you."

"Balls," Bobby says crossly. "You could have and you would have, but I'm glad you didn't have to completely on your own."

"Me too."

"Now, I'm going to wash the road off me, and you go make sure Sam isn't burning down the kitchen."

"I'm on it."

Dean finds Sam staring at the oven controls with a frown on his face. "Need some help?"

"I know how to turn it on to regular heat, but how do you get the broiler on? Where's the manual for this thing?" Sam sounds irritated and self-conscious.

Dean steps up close to Sam and wraps his arms around his middle, heedless of the flour and the tomato sauce. Sam stiffens. "Bobby's getting cleaned up. We have a few minutes." Sam relaxes into the hold.

"Sam?"

"Yeah."

"I love you for wanting to make us dinner. And if you want to learn how to make pizza, I will gladly teach you. But maybe we should just order pizza tonight?"

Sam relaxes even further, wrapping his own arms around Dean to return the hug. "I think that's a good idea. The crust didn't really rise that well, so I'm pretty sure the pizzas were going to end up extra chewy."

"I'll call in our regular order," Dean says, but he doesn't leave Sam's arms just yet. It feels too good to be pressed up against Sam's lean muscles, to breathe in his scent, recognizable even over the food smells.

"Sorry for making a mess," Sam says, voice small. "I wanted to be helpful."

Dean tips his head back,and kisses Sam lightly on the mouth. "You were super helpful last night."

Sam rolls his eyes and blushes at the same time. "Yeah, well. Anytime."

"Yeah?" Dean hasn't gone five minutes today without flashing back to the events of the previous evening and how it felt to have Sam incredibly, amazingly, inside of him. "Looking forward to it."

Sam drops his forehead to Dean's. "Stop talking or I'm going to have to go, um, take care of things before dinner. Not to mention, if you don't order those pizzas we're never going to eat."

Dean presses one more kiss to Sam's mouth. "You're so practical, Sammy." He pulls away, making the pizza order while Sam dumps most of the failed pizza dough into the trash. They convert the toppings into a kind of antipasto salad to munch on, and Dean opens up three beers just as Bobby comes trundling noisily down the stairs.

"Pizza is on its way," Dean announces. Sam and Bobby talk about Sam's work at the paper. The pizza takes a while because they're kind of on the outskirts of town now, but none of them mind. When it finally arrives, they eat and talk and make their way through the better part of a case of beer.

"And tomorrow I'm making a full Christmas spread," Dean promises.

Bobby pats his belly. "You're going to have to evict me from the Winchester B&B before I get too big to roll out of here."

"You need anything else before we turn in?" Sam asks.

"Nah. You're taking real good care of old Bobby. Thanks, boys."

Sam heads down first, then Bobby goes upstairs, and Dean wipes down the kitchen. When he gets to the bedroom, Sam's already in their bed. He lifts his eyebrows.

"Normal for us," Sam reminds him. "Besides, he's two floors away."

Dean thought it would feel uncomfortable, but the whole night's been pretty easy. And he won't sleep for shit with Sam in the next room. "Normal for us," he agrees, and climbs in next to Sam.

***

Christmas morning Dean wakes up to find Sam's morning wood nestled insistently against his lower back. When he rolls over, Sam's eyes are still closed, so Dean just takes a second to stare at his brother. He catalogs the pretty brown hair, the pert nose, the lips that look kissable even when slack with sleep. Sam's eyes open slowly, but when they focus on Dean, Sam smiles.

"Merry Christmas, Dean."

"Merry Christmas, Sammy." They kiss and then Sam fumbles around for a minute until he can get their dicks lined up and wrap one of his hands nearly all the way around both, jacking them both roughly, but effectively, and they come almost at the same time, hot and sweaty under the sheets.

Dean groans. "We're going to have to do laundry later."

"Worth it," Sam says. 

Bobby's up and gotten a pot of coffee going already. They find him reading in an armchair next to the Christmas tree, the number of presents underneath mysteriously having trebled overnight. Dean whips up some scrambled eggs and takes the meat for their Christmas dinner out of the fridge, and they eat breakfast on their laps on the floor next to the Christmas tree like kids. They open presents slowly, laughing and talking over each other, until Sam opens his last box.

"This from you?" Sam asks Dean, shaking the box experimentally.

"Open it before I take it back," Dean says. He's thought about it a lot and he's only a little bit nervous to give this to Sam.

Sam opens it up. He peers into the box and then he looks up at Dean, eyes wide. "Are you serious?" He pulls the contents out and holds them up: a blue nylon collar and a retractable leash.

"What the hell is that for?" Bobby asks.

"We're getting a dog!" Sam shouts and then launches himself at Dean, knocking him backward and tangling up their arms and legs as Sam attempts to give Dean a hug. Dean laughs, Sam's delight the best Christmas present he could have asked for.

"We're going to have to get on some lists because I know you want a rescue," Dean says. "But yeah, I think we're ready. And by we, I mean me."

"Thank you. It's going to be awesome." Sam tries to sit them both up and separate them, but when they finally get upright, he stays nice and close. Bobby doesn't even lift an eyebrow.

"And you're going to be in charge of it. I'm not saying I won't help out, but you gotta be the point person."

"Absolutely. I will," Sam promises.

"Hell, I didn't know you were such a dog lover," Bobby says.

"You better be careful what you wish for, Sam. Your puppy eyes routine might have some competition with a real dog around."

Sam beams, unperturbed by Dean's teasing. "I don't have to wish. I already have everything I could possibly ask for."

***

The week between Christmas and New Years falls into a routine of sorts. Once Dean goes back to work, Bobby spends more time with Sam. They go walking in the preserve near their house, and to Sam's favorite local bookstores, coming home with way too many of their mutual drug of choice. Dean finds time to do some prep for their party. Sam's in charge of drinks and music, and Dean's in charge of food. He's given a few guests some of the smaller jobs, like the salads, but he's doing ribs and baked beans and for dessert—well, one guess.

Bobby pitches in by providing them with some top-shelf bourbon and finds them a vintage-looking metal tub to use for ice at one of the consignment shops in town.

By New Year's Eve, the house is spotless, they have enough alcohol to get all of Petaluma wasted, and they've dragged all their chairs out to the patio, plus erected a brand new hammock between two trees in the yard. Sam and Bobby strung white Christmas lights through the trees earlier in the week, and the whole set up glows.

Sam's fiddling with the iPod they have plugged into the sound system. The grill is warming up, the drinks are out, and Dean surveys the scene with satisfaction.

Bobby takes a sip from his lowball glass. "Looks damn good, boys. You're doing yourselves proud."

"Thanks. Glad you could stay for the party, Bobby."

"Wouldn't have missed it." Bobby smiles crookedly. "You know I never had any kids of my own, but the two of you—I'm pretty damn lucky to count you as family."

Dean looks from Bobby, whose chin is set as if he's determined to say what he wants to say, to Sam, who's listening carefully.

"And I just want you two to know—well, hell. I love you. No matter what," he says firmly. "No matter what."

Dean's stunned. Bobby's heart is big enough to take whatever they throw at him. He looks at Sam again and their gazes lock for a second. Sam nods, then smiles at Bobby. 

"We love you, too," Sam says.

"Love you, Bobby," Dean says, his voice embarrassingly thick.

"And that's enough of the chick-flick moments," Bobby says. "What this party needs are some guests. Where the hell is everyone?"

Dean shrugs. "They'll get here when they get here. But if no one shows, more ribs for us."

Sam laughs. "It's barely six. By eight, this place is going to be overrun."

***

He's not wrong. Dean has no idea what time it is, but the patio is packed with people, most of whom he knows, and he's serving up ribs so fast his arm aches. It feels like every single person they know in Petaluma is here, plus some of their new neighbors, and they all brought either booze or food, so both tables are groaning under the weight of all the sides and bottles. 

Donna and her boyfriend Doug are here, Donna's signature laugh the true soundtrack the party. Sam's boss Jody and her daughters are raving about the ribs. Most of Dean's employees are on hand, simultaneously drinking and playing an impromptu soccer match in the stretch of yard beyond the hammock. Dr. F and his wife are around someplace. Charlie and her roommate, Dorothy, are debating the merits of classic Hollywood horror movies versus Italian Giallo films with Bobby, of all people. 

Cas and Anna show up late, Anna dragging a giant square wrapped package. Dean takes a break from the grill, hauling Sam by the hand with him to the library to unwrap the gift in private. It's the painting Dean had admired at the gallery, the frozen world.

"I thought you should have it. Both of you."

"It's…it's too much," Dean says.

"I think what Dean means is, thank you," Sam says quietly.

"You're welcome," Anna says.

Dean tries to get over the extravagance of the gesture. "Thank you, Anna. It's perfect." He leans over and kisses her on the cheek.

She grins. "Now, who's going to get me a drink?"

Sam lead her outside, but Dean lingers by the painting for another minute. He realizes Cas is still there when he hears the gravelly voice.

"Are you all right, Dean?"

"I'm…good Cas. Damn it. I'm really good." He turns. "Is this my life now? I just don't know how I got so lucky. I've got Sam, and Bobby, and you and Anna. This house. The shop. I just—is it real? Is it a dream?"

"It's not a dream, Dean. It's what you deserve. It's what you've worked for."

"It's okay to be freaked out sometimes, though, right? I mean, even with everything that's going good in my life, it's not always going to feel perfect."

"You've pretty much summed up the human condition, Dean. It's not always great. Sometimes it's downright horrible. But if you can be grateful for the good things, most of the time, you're doing pretty well."

"Grateful." Dean takes a deep breath. He looks through the French doors at the party outside, at the people he loves, who love him back. He's pretty fucking grateful for it all.

Cas clears his throat and Dean glances back at him. "Can I be perfectly honest with you, Dean?"

"Go for it."

"I think I'd rather be your friend now, instead of your therapist."

Dean grins, surprised but pleased. "Yeah? Well, that sounds good to me, Cas."

Maybe Dr. F is ready to take him back. Starting over with another therapist might be a little tricky. But he's certain that whatever happens, he's got Dr. F and Cas in his corner, and he's got his own toolbox to deal with life on his own terms, too.

Cas joins the party and Dean checks on the grill. Sam brings him a fresh beer, and it tastes as good as ambrosia. "Hey, can you disappear with me for a second?"

Dean raises his eyebrows. "Just a second?"

"Well, a few seconds."

"Sure." Everyone seems happy, so Dean throws the cover on the grill and follows Sam down the outside stairs that lead all the way to the street level. Except for the safety lights, it's dark and kinda cold. Dean's only wearing jeans and a button-down. He shivers.

"You chilly?" Sam asks, putting his arm around Dean's shoulders.

"Not anymore."

They stop at the bottom of the staircase which comes out near the garage doors. Their normally empty little street has cars stacked on either side.

"Our party is a hit, Sam."

"Yes, you're very popular."

"Me? You know they're here for you."

"For us."

"So, why'd you bring me all the way in the opposite direction of the party?"

"I just. I wanted you to know something." 

Dean hears Sam's deep breath. He can only see Sam's silhouette in the darkness, but he knows every inch of Sam's face, from his earlobe to the mole to the side of his nose. "What's that?"

"I'm happy that Bobby's in our lives, and that our friends love us, and our therapists care enough about us that they want us to be happy, no matter what form that takes. I'm thrilled that we have this beautiful home, and that we're soon going to be dog parents—"

"Dog parents? I did not agree to that title."

"You'll get used to it. My point is, we have an abundance of riches. We're really, really lucky. But I want you to know, out here, in the cold, in the dark, if all I had was you, I'd still be just as happy. If we never escaped, if our life was still a series of shitty motel rooms or maybe sleeping in our car and we had to hustle for grocery money and had to fight our way through life, day in and day out—it wouldn't matter. If I have you, Dean, nothing else matters. Everything else is just gravy. Being with you, being your brother, being your person. Being your—" Sam stops. 

Dean needs to know what he was going to say. "Being your what, Sammy?"

"Being your soulmate. That will never change. And I just wanted you to know that."

Dean tastes the word before he says it. "Soulmates."

"We are, you know." Sam says it as matter of factly as if he's stating climate change is real.

"I know."

He didn't think it was possible for him to love Sam any more, but this is Sam. Of course there's always going to be more. His love for Sam is infinite. "Thank you," he says.

"For what?"

"For existing." Dean folds himself against Sam, doesn't try to kiss him, just tries to get as close as possible while they're still clothed and in semi-public. "For being you. For loving me."

"I love you so much," Sam whispers. "My big brother."

Sam tastes salty and sweet when their lips finally meet. He tastes like the ocean and the grass, with a hint of smoke, like fire.

"I'm burning for you," Dean says. He doesn't know where the words come from, they just appear on his tongue.

"Let's burn together," Sam says, and then he's kissing Dean fierce and hard.

When he catches his breath what seems like eons later, Dean's lips are puffy and Sam's are red and chapped. He can hear their own party going on above without them. "I guess we have to make sure no one's getting into trouble up there."

"It's almost midnight. And we haven't served dessert."

"Well, we can't have that." They walk hand in hand up the stairs. As happy as Dean felt before Sam's declaration, he feels better now. Centered. Grounded. Because Sam's right—as long as they have each other, everything else is whipped cream. 

The party hasn't missed them. The food looks nicely depleted, not to mention the alcohol. Quite a few guests are dancing. It looks like about six people are piled into the hammock. The soccer game has transformed into volleyball without a net. The vibe is mellow, punctuated by laughter. 

Dean smiles at Sam, and picks up the new wooden-handled pie server Sam got him for Christmas. He whistles to get the attention of everyone at the party. Everyone he loves in the world.

"Who wants pie?"

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who read and commented along the way. Comments really do make an author want to keep going! I appreciate each and every one. This was really rewarding to write and share and I hope you liked it! <3<3


End file.
